Fear and Malice
by E. S. Young
Summary: Three years before the Batman appeared, Dr. Crane met the newly-appointed Dr. Harleen Quinzel. It was the start of a twisted friendship, as well as glimpses of past events that shaped the darkness that lurks within them both.
1. False Impressions

**Chapter I**

_**False Impressions**_

"Thank God I'm pretty.

Every skill I ever have will be in question,

Every ill that I must suffer: merely brought on by myself,

Though the cops would come for someone else,

I'm blessed.

I'm truly privelidged to look this good without clothes on,

Which only means that when I sing, you're jerking off

And when I'm gone, you won't remember.

Thank God I'm pretty."

– Emilie Autumn, "Thank God I'm Pretty"

* * *

Note: Originally, I had wanted to title this _Fear and Loathing_ because I wanted to use the word fear in the title and because I wanted said title to be something simple that summed up what the story was about. However, I was worried that I might disappoint anyone who went to read the story, thinking that they were going to get a warped parody of _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas _with Jonathan Crane as Hunter S. Thompson. Although, I _do _have this bizarre image of Jonathan and the Joker in a high speed chase (with Mr. J driving), trying to escape the Batman, when, for seemingly no reason, the Joker slams on the brakes, which causes Jonathan (who is already tripping heavily as a weird after-effect of being sprayed with his own fear toxin) to panic and yell "Wait! We can't stop here! This is Bat Country!" Highly amusing—to me, anyway. But I digress.

What I really set out to do was write a story that takes place over the course of three years, leading up to the events in _Batman Begins_ and focuses on Jonathan's time as a doctor at Arkham Asylum, as well as the strange friendship he somehow managed to form with one Dr. Harleen Quinzel. I blame the episode of _Batman: The Animated Series _entitled "Harley's Holiday;" anyone who has seen it knows what I'm talking about, and anyone who hasn't…look it up on YouTube. Their interaction is brief, but it's very cute. That said, I also feel that, in time, Nolan-verse Jonathan could grow to like Harley, almost to the point where he could actually admit that he enjoyed her company, even though he wouldn't.

The thing about Harley, or rather my interpretation of her, is mainly that this is Nolan-verse, which is obviously a realistic take on the original comics and cartoons. So, because of that, I wanted to write a realistic Harley, basing her on the original comic book character but toning her down and making her much darker. I've read several stories where it's basically cartoon-Harley meets Heath Ledger's Joker, and while they were well written, every now and then a small part of me would get hung up on the fact that I just can't see that version of the Joker getting along with sweet, gullible, clumsy, ditzy Harley Quinn. Honestly, I think that he would kill her shortly after she helped him escape. I adore the original Harley, don't get me wrong; otherwise, I wouldn't want to write a story about her. What I'm saying is, I want to create a character that would make Nolan-verse Joker would think twice before killing, someone who would intrigue him even if he didn't end up falling in love with them (I can see the possible romance between Mr. J and Harley in the cartoons, but in Nolan-verse, Batman is his one true love and there's nothing that will make me think otherwise, sorry). So, basically, this story sets everything up and let's us see who Harley was before she met Mr. J and, hopefully if it's well received, I'll write the second part which focuses on the events that take place after _The Dark Knight_.

* * *

"Excuse me—"

She waited for the slender figure to turn around and face her.

It didn't, instead continuing down the dim and barren hallway, rapidly jotting down notes on a yellow legal pad.

She blinked. O-_kay_… Louder, this time.

"Ex_cuse_ me?"

Finally, results. She knew that he had heard her—he looked up from his notes, tilting his head slightly in confusion, as if unsure of the source of the interruption, or if it had even occurred at all. Well, at least that was proof that he had simply been absorbed in his work and not deliberately ignoring her. Hopefully, anyway.

She cleared her throat a little, and at last he turned around.

The man that now faced her did not live up to her expectations—and, quite frankly, she was pleased by that. Granted, until now she had only seen him from the back, given the tailored charcoal suit, black dress shoes, dark hair, the jutting rectangular frame of his glasses, and overall rail-thin form…she had thought that he would be much…geekier. Maybe with terribly overgrown eyebrows, or an oily complexion, a big nose, something like that. Not this: A man with full lips; clear, fair skin; and a tiny nose—delicate features that made him too pretty to be handsome, yet too angular to be beautiful. And she certainly hadn't expected his eyes to be blue. Brown maybe, or even gray, but not blue. And definitely not such a vivid, striking shade of blue, either.

And he was young. Very young. An intern, maybe? Well, if he was an intern, she doubted that he would be one for much longer. As those bright blue eyes did a quick sweep of her tiny frame, she could tell that in that short time he had already made a number of assessments about her character. The makings of a well-practiced shrink. Or a shrink-to-be. She couldn't be sure, but it was nice to think that she might not be the youngest doctor there—the image of a nuthouse being run by two pretty twenty-somethings popped into her head and made her bite the corner of her lip to suppress a smirk.

He arched an eyebrow at her, clearly impatient.

_Tight-ass_, she thought, although he could have just been having a bad day. She had the sense to grin a little sheepishly.

"Oh, ahm…hi. I, uh, I was wondering if you knew where I could find Dr. Gooding? The receptionist said that he'd be in his office," she quickly explained, "but I went there and no luck. I'm new here—well, obviously—and I don't want to get off to a bad start and have him think that I'm late or anything, in case he's waiting around for me."

It was kind of funny, watching him scrutinize her during her flustered little discourse. Years of studying the human mind coupled with natural intuition made her quite certain that she knew exactly what he was thinking. Then again, maybe it was simply his faint look of annoyance that did it.

_Knows he's smarter than me, is basing most of his analysis on the way I look, thinks I'm an idiot. An idiot who must have slept her way through college because there's _no way _that ditzy little blonde could ever earn a doctorate on her own._ She smiled wanly to herself, by now far too accustomed to this to feel anything but mirth. _He probably doesn't even think I'm a doctor._

"I doubt you have to worry about that," the man finally said.

She tipped her head to the side, and he gave her a cold smirk that told her that he was going to crush her relief in a mere two seconds.

"Dr. Gooding isn't one to wait," he informed her sharply, sounding much like a schoolteacher reminding a naughty student of the rules. "Therefore, if you've failed to meet him at the appointed time, I would imagine that you're already off to a bad start."

"Oh, no, I'm not late," she corrected. "I said that I was going to _be _late—especially if I stood around being teased by Arkham's staff instead of finding out where Dr. Gooding is." She smiled a little. "You were teasing me, weren't you?"

He pursed his lips in a way that said that teasing of any sort was something that he rarely (if ever) did. A shame, really. He was kind of cute.

"In a sense," he responded curtly, "Miss..?"

"Uh, Quinzel," she replied, not bothering to hide the wide grin that had spread across her face, which rather confused the young man in front of her.

"Miss Quinzel…" he repeated slowly, "you _are _aware that the new interns do not start until _next _Monday, aren't you?" The patronizing assumption made her almost giddy with animus, and she didn't bother correcting him. Not yet. She would wait and then shove it in his face just like she had all the others.

"Really?" she replied mildly. "That's…interesting." A beat. "Um…I still need to speak with Dr. Gooding, you know."

Now both of his eyebrows rose, and though he hid it well, she could see that he was perplexed and not enjoying it one bit.

"The last I saw him, he was in the lounge, granted, that was nearly fifteen minutes ago…still, you might find him there. Straight down this next hall, take a right, third room on the left."

"Thanks," she said with a small nod before taking off in the direction that he had indicated.

As she walked away, she spared him a glance, looking over her shoulder at him, the corner of her mouth curling upward at the confusion that was bright in his eyes and how quick he was to conceal it.

Casually tossing her head, she continued on her way.

* * *

An hour later, and he had all but pushed that squeaky little intern from his mind, too deeply engrossed in reading the files of what he was certain would soon be his newest patient: a highly deranged man by the name of Allan Breedlove, aka 'the Worm,' named so for his apparent ability to worm his way into a person's head and use his newly gleaned information to turn the person's thoughts against them. After committing a hideously violent slew of killings, Breedlove had finally been captured and charged with sexual assault, battery, and murder, but had avoided imprisonment using the insanity plea.

_Don't they all?_ he thought dryly. As of late, he had begun using the phrase 'questionable _in_sanity' since the asylum director, Dr. James Gooding, appeared to have a proclivity for accepting patients with dubious mental instability, namely those who worked for Carmine Falcone. It wasn't difficult to figure out what was motivating Gooding, even though it was not as if the director was wanting financially.

_Of course,_ he mused bitterly. _It isn't as if he's verging on a medical breakthrough and the only thing standing between him and success are fiscal matters…_ Well, perhaps 'verging' was not the most accurate term. He had been experimenting with fear-inducing narcotics since high school, and the drugs still failed to produce the results that he yearned for. True, while they had succeeded in creating all of the symptoms of fear—wide eyes, shaking, perspiration, screaming—in his test subjects, it was never lasting, the effects always wearing off in a matter of minutes. That wasn't enough. His subjects were frightened, but he wanted to know what had done it, what had caused them to go rigid with panic, why their mouths were stretched wide with terror, their eyes ready to pop out of their skulls… They merely felt afraid, but nothing had actually frightened them. What he wanted was to conjure up their greatest fears and watch as they cowered in abject horror.

And there was a way of achieving such results, of that he was certain. What it boiled down to was finding, purchasing, and combining the right ingredients, and while his salary was hardly meager, it was slowly becoming difficult to fund his experiments and maintain the upscale lifestyle that he so enjoyed.

He sighed, shaking himself out of his thoughts and turning his attention back to Breedlove's file, narrowing his eyes slightly.

It had always been rather irritating to think that people who had committed such heinous crimes, all the while fully aware of what they were doing, would be sent to Arkham as opposed to receiving the punishment they undoubtedly deserved in a penitentiary.

Then again, he had often thought that those so-called 'correctional facilities' were far too lenient with their prisoners. And his tax dollars went toward keeping those revolting, worthless individuals alive and healthy.

Of course, that was why he was only mildly annoyed with the insanity plea. If such criminals were sent to _Arkham_…he would do his best to ensure that they received proper treatment.

Albeit, this was not the case with Mr. Breedlove. By judging him on his file alone, one could easily deduce that the man was quite obviously lacking in sanity, though he still intended on seeing for himself if and when he was assigned to Mr. Breedlove. Really, why they couldn't have done that in the beginning… but no. Instead Breedlove had gone through three different psychiatrists before Gooding had realized what a grievous error he had made. Which was, no doubt, why he had been summoned to Gooding's office today. It was just the other day that Breedlove had had Dr. Burns close to ripping his hair out, his frightening ramblings and eerie taunts forcing the doctor to take a brief leave of absence.

Yes, that must have been why Gooding wanted to see him. That egotistical joke of a psychiatrist had finally come to his senses…

As he briskly strode down the hallway, deeply immersed in his notes, he overheard two of the guards talking.

"Have y'seen 'er yet?" It was Mark Tess—young, eager, easily manipulated, and a womanizer with light brown hair and muted green eyes.

"Who?" Lyle Bolton—older, more serious, more brutal, lived for his job, but was also relatively compliant if one simply used the right words—the staff at Arkham could get away with murder (literally) with Bolton because the guard thought that the inmates should receive exactly what they deserved. While the short-but-stocky Tess could hardly be called a weakling, Bolton was over six feet of pure muscle (aided, no doubt, by steroids) with a dark buzz cut; a firm, square jaw; and black, beady eyes. Whenever a patient grew too violent, Bolton was the one who was always called in before the situation got out of hand.

"The new doc," Tess now elaborated.

"No. Why? She _hot?_" He could hear the sneer of disdain in Bolton's growl of a voice without even looking up from his notes. Tess, however, failed to notice even though he wasn't trying to focus on a notorious criminal's profile, background, and mental state.

"Man, I hope to tell ya." A lewd chuckle. "She looks like she could've been the head cheerleader at my high school. Got…long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a great…"

He didn't need to see the gesture to know that Tess was referring to the woman's behind. Frankly, he didn't care to think about such things whether they belonged to women, men, or otherwise, and Miss Quinzel was no exception. Although…no one had mentioned her, had they? That girl was an intern, anyway, and Tess had clearly said _doctor_… He shook his head. It was the blonde hair and blue eyes that did it—both features belonged to Miss Quinzel and, apparently, this new doctor as well. His subconscious had merely related the two.

Quinzel… He scowled a little. She had been…annoying, to say the least. A little odd, but, all in all, very much like every other intern—ignorant, overly confident, and completely unprepared for what she was about to embark on. In the two-and-a-half years that he had worked at Arkham, he hadn't come across even _one _of those halfwits who had any idea as to what interning at a mental institution entailed. They were all so self-assured, so very certain that _they_ were the ones who could help these people and thus change the world. It was sad, really. They didn't even realize that society was quickly becoming more corrupt than it had ever been, and that Gotham was leading the way. Thankfully for the interns, he had taken it upon himself to introduce them to the real world and 'help' them understand just how cruel it truly was. Yes, he may have crushed a few hopes and dreams (and made more than one of them cry) in the past, but, really, it was for their own good.

Miss Quinzel seemed like the overly optimistic type; she probably wanted to become a children's psychiatrist or perhaps help girls with eating disorders and self-esteem issues (though he was betting on the former; she looked like the kind of person who thought that all children were—he smirked with disdain—_God's _precious creatures that never had an evil thought enter their sweet, innocent heads). It was intriguing, however—he mainly wanted nothing to do with the girl (he could hardly call someone like _that_ a woman), and yet a part of actually hoped that she would be interning under him. The prospect of breaking her was entirely too tempting.

She was so—he cringed—_cute_. Too cute. People like that were used to an easy life, to always getting their way. With just a bat of their long lashes, a flash of their brilliant smiles, doors would open and the world would be theirs. He wanted to drag those people down, let reality hit them like a slap in the face, and show them that life was hardly the sunshine and rainbows fantasy that they had dreamed it to be.

Oh, Miss Quinzel was not without intelligence, he would grant her that small compliment. Visiting Dr. Gooding a week before the other interns and thus gracefully earning herself a spot in the director's good books (all false smiles, décolleté blouses, and short skirts)…it wasn't an entirely tactless move on her part. But there was more to the field of psychiatry than charming the head doctors. And if she _did _so happen to intern under _him_, well, he thought viciously, he fully intended for her to realize that.

"Well that's just great," Bolton snorted. "A _woman _comin' in here, thinkin' she can cure these maniacs with a little TLC." The burly man shook his head. "That's the last thing they need."

As he politely knocked on the door to Dr. Gooding's office, he silently agreed with Bolton, hoping that the guard was wrong in his assumptions about this new psychiatrist.

Gritting his teeth at the head doctor's distracted "Come in," he twisted the doorknob and quietly slipped into the office, rolling his eyes at the certificates of merit and framed inkblots on the walls. Any man whose office had a '60s modern décor (complete with an orange couch; blonde laminate desk, end tables, and bookcases; wood paneling; and a golden sunburst clock) had no taste whatsoever.

Seated on the ghastly orange couch, Gooding barely noticed as he entered the hideous office, utterly swept up in the conversation he was having with the person sitting next to him. A woman. Young, attractive. With fair skin, long blonde hair, and wide blue eyes.

_Oh, for goodness sake, is she still here?_

Apparently, Miss Quinzel had managed to locate Gooding after all and, judging by the scene before him, said doctor hadn't been the least bit upset by her tardiness. With his arm casually draped over the back of the couch, Gooding was practically oozing charm (or sleaze) as he leaned into the young intern's personal space, though of course she didn't seem to mind. If cozying up to Gooding meant a secure position and an excellent letter of recommendation, then why should she?

He bit back his disgust before clearing his throat irritably.

"Dr. Gooding, I believe you wanted to speak with me?"

Gooding looked up in surprise while Quinzel merely giggled a little, hiding her smile behind a dainty hand. His scowl deepened.

"Jonathan?" Gooding blinked dull brown eyes at him, then appeared to remember something. It was clear that the director wanted to get back to talking with Quinzel, for he didn't even take the time to introduce them, simply got right to the point. It was just as well. He had better things to do than waste formalities on an intern, and it was not as if he didn't already know who she was. No matter that he hadn't deigned to give her _his _name; she could find that out on her own.

"Yes," Gooding was saying. "You still have Breedlove's file, don't you?"

He nodded. "Yes. The man is quite fascinating. Since he's proven to be rather stressful for three of my colleagues, I was curious about his case. And I also thought that it might be beneficial for me to review it, perhaps…make a few assessments of my own."

Gooding shook his head.

"Ah, Jonathan, you always were an overachiever," he chuckled amiably. "Of course, I can't fault you for that." Though the faint tightness around Gooding's eyes and jaw indicated that he would have loved nothing more than to do just that. "But, if you're finished with that file, I'll need it back. It wouldn't do for Breedlove's new psychiatrist to attempt treatment without ever having read up on the man, now, would it?" The director laughed again with a nudge to Quinzel who beamed without hesitation.

Inside, he was seething, outraged that Gooding was so utterly thickheaded that the director hadn't realized that _he _was the only person at Arkham who could make any progress with a man like Breedlove. How many doctors had to fail before Gooding came to his senses? And if the man was simply toying with him, then he was only wasting his time, for they both knew that Breedlove would eventually be assigned to him. Why wait? It was infuriating, not to mention unprofessional. Then again, Gooding wasn't known for taking his job seriously, not since becoming director.

With a sigh of frustration, he removed his glasses to shoot a glare at his so-called superior.

"I suppose I've learned all that I can without actually meeting Breedlove myself," he said pointedly. "May I ask who is taking over for Dr. Burns?"

"My God, I completely forgot!" Gooding scolded himself before looking to the young lady sitting at his side.

"If I may?" he asked her, and she nodded, wearing a modest grin. Gooding turned to him. "Jonathan, meet the newest addition to Arkham Asylum's staff: Dr. Harleen Quinzel."

She smiled brightly up at him and he felt his guts twist. Surely not…

Gooding was oblivious.

"Harleen, this is Dr. Jonathan Crane—the man who makes us all look bad—Arkham's deputy administrator and resident specialist in psychopharmacology."

* * *

Notes

…he could have just been having a bad day – I feel that it's important to point out how quick Harley is to try and find a reasonable explanation for a person's less-than-favorable behavior. It's subtle here, but becomes very apparent when she meets the Joker.

The patronizing assumption made her almost giddy with animus… - it's like she _is_ annoyed that Jonathan took one look at her and automatically assumed that she was a ditzy intern, but the fact that she was right that he would assume this amuses her, as does the thought that he'll probably feel like an ass when he finds out that she's really a doctor. Both of those factors kind of override any feelings of animosity that she might have. That, and by now she's grown so accustomed to the way people see her, that the only thing she can do is laugh at it. Again, this will be very important when she meets Mr. J.

…that squeaky little intern… – I have nothing to say about this other than the idea of Jonathan describing Harley as such amuses the hell out of me.

Allan Breedlove, aka 'the Worm' – how lame do I feel that I couldn't come up with a better bad guy name than this? In a weird way, I only feel slightly better about this because I have Harley and Jonathan make fun of it in later chapters.

(aided, no doubt, by steroids) – this is something of an inside joke, the short explanation being that my friends and I are convinced that Lyle Bolton must be on steroids, which would make sense considering how muscular and temperamental he is.

Frankly, he didn't care to think about such things… - see, this is where writing Jonathan becomes difficult. As much as I would _like _to see him paired up with someone, and despite the fact that I read Crane/Whoever fanfiction, I have a hard time writing my own romance story about him because, to me, he comes off as being completely asexual. I think that's part of the reason why I don't mind whom he's paired up with in fanfiction as long as the story is well written and in character (and Jonathan isn't hooking up with Rachel Dawes—sorry, just…no). So, in short, that's why this story focuses more on friendship while only leaving the potential for romance in the future.

…he had taken it upon himself to introduce them [the interns] to the real world and 'help' them understand just how cruel it truly was – he's a regular saint, that man. XP Really, though, all sarcasm aside, I like the idea that, while Jonathan is fully aware that what he's doing is wrong and while he mainly does it to sate his own sadistic cravings there is a part of him that, in a weird way, believes that he's doing it in the name of science and, in that way, he's actually _helping _people because he's making such amazing scientific breakthroughs. And, as far as being mean to the interns as a way of showing them the 'real world'…honestly, I wouldn't say that this is necessarily a _bad _thing, since we all have to meet with reality at some point (hoping I'll be prepared when that day comes for me), although Jonathan doesn't have to be such a cruel, heartless bastard about it. But then, if he weren't such a prick, would we still love him as much as we do now? Me thinks not.

…all children were—he smirked with disdain—_God's _precious creatures – yeah, Jonathan and God aren't on great terms. Religion is not going to play a huge part in this story (mainly because, though I try not to be offensive, I'm worried that my desire to stay realistic and in character might upset some readers), but it did greatly influence Jonathan's childhood, since I'm basing his past on what I've been able to gather from reading summaries of _Scarecrow: Year One_. Not that I've actually been able to get my hands on a copy, damn it…

…that never had an evil thought enter their sweet, innocent heads – it's a bit of an exaggeration, but Jonathan is actually semi-sorta right in thinking this about Harley. She (or at least, my Nolan-ized interpretation of her) does see children as being pure, untainted, and innocent because most of them have yet to experience real hardships and extreme situations, and she feels that to rob a child of that innocence is one of the greatest, most disgusting crimes a person can commit. Of course, that isn't to say that Harley is a very kind and completely uncorrupted individual, but that will be elaborated in later chapters. With Jonathan, however, because he was severely bullied in school and therefore witness firsthand just how cruel children can be, he obviously does not share Harley's views.

She was so—he cringed—_cute_ – I think that it would almost pain Jonathan to use the word 'cute' just because he would associate it would anything bright, cheery, and incredibly annoying. If he says you're cute, it isn't a compliment.

"Just what we need," Bolton snorted, "a _woman _comin' in here…" – Lyle Bolton is a sexist pig. Well, kinda. But not really. It isn't the reason why he hates Harley. At least, not the main reason, as you will soon see.

***Psychiatrist/psychologist – whether Jonathan is one or the other seems to be a subject of debate and I've never gotten any clear, definite answers. Originally, I was going to go with psychiatrist since they can write prescriptions (even though _clinical _psychologists can prescribe meds, too), having a degree in psychopharmacology usually equals psychiatrist, and because that's what he was listed as on Wikipedia. However, then someone informed me that, even though it's very difficult, it _is _possible to be involved in a joint Ph.D/M.D. program, which means that Jonathan very well could be both. And, since he _is _such an overachiever, I wouldn't put it past him. :-)

**Disclaimer:** For once, I own nothing, not even an original character.

**A Request from the Author**

As I said before, I take a lot of time editing my stories and doing research for them, so please do not hesitate to let me know what you think. And by that I mean please give me constructive criticism. Praise is great, but constructive criticism helps me to become a better writer. Neither praise (nor flames, for that matter) really do that. So, if there's anything that needs improvement, please tell me. I'll really appreciate it. :-)


	2. Love and Marriage

**Chapter II**

_**Love and Marriage**_

"I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool." – from F. Scott Fitzgerald's _the Great Gatsby_

_

* * *

_

Susan Crane had never liked her son. Even before the child was born, she was resolved to despise him. And why shouldn't she? After all, it was his fault that she had had to drop out of high school prematurely, his fault that she was now the town whore, his fault that his father had left her, that no one would make an honest woman out of her, that she was now fat and disgusting with stretch marks and swollen feet. He had made her ugly, the little bastard, when she used to be so beautiful.

She had never needed her parents to tell her that she was one of, if not _the_ prettiest girl in school, even though that was what they had always said. Granted, it was a small town and there weren't many other girls to compare herself to, but that fact was easily forgotten. With her delicate features, porcelain skin, soft golden curls, and bright blue eyes, it didn't even matter that her family had been poor ever since she was ten when her father had taken his own life, leaving her and her homemaker mother nothing but debts (Daddy had been a gambling man). She was pretty and charming, so the other children liked her. Her mother was certain (and she assured her daughter of this) that Susan would win herself a rich husband who would take care of them both—because, though not the brightest student in class, Susan wasn't senseless enough to marry a man who would sweep her off her feet and throw her into the lap of luxury but leave her poor, dear mother behind.

At least, that was what they had both thought would happen.

Before _he_ came along.

Before _he_ entered her life in the form of a tall, dark, and handsome stranger—that was what Susan would always call him in her mind, though it was hardly meant as a term of endearment. At eighteen, he would be graduating high school that year, then heading to college to become a rich doctor—he was as dirt-poor as she was, but he had had the grades to earn himself a full ride to some prestigious medical school on the East Coast. Susan had never really put much thought into college, anyway; her thoughts had always been about finding the right man to take care of her and her mother. Though, secretly, she had wished for him, gorgeous the way his hair fell over his dark eyes... so sweet and so sincere—at least, that's what she had thought. They were only two years apart, and with her looks, she could have had him easily. But he was poor, and someone like that would only bring her down even further, or so her mother said. How right she had been...

Though she longed for her Handsome Stranger, Susan had pushed most of her thoughts of him from her mind—thinking such things was a sin, anyway. But then she had heard about his scholarship and how he was to become a famous, _wealthy_ doctor in a matter of years. He would have his MD by age twenty-four and no older—that was what everyone had said.

She realized then that she _could_ have her Handsome Stranger after all. Her mother would not be pleased, but she would understand after Susan explained that she was promised to someone who, though not rich now, would soon _become_ rich after he had graduated from medical school. And her Handsome Stranger was brilliant, so it would only be a few years, that was what everyone said. He would leave her and go off to college—but not before she had cemented their love first.

With renewed hope, Susan had approached him, flirting with him, teasing him, her blue eyes wide and shining as she pretended to understand what he meant when he talked about things like the central something-something and cerebral whatevers.

And when he asked her if she wanted to go with him to the 'last-blow-out-before-college' party that his friend Eddie Turner was throwing in his family's barn, Susan had accepted.

He loved her, she was certain that he did.

_That_ was why she had agreed to go up to the loft with him, that was why she had lain down beside him in the hay, that was why she had let him lift up her pale blue sundress (the one that matched her eyes), why she had not protested when he had hooked his fingers around her little white panties and slowly slid them down her legs, why she had let him kiss her, touch her, run his hands through her hair, why she had only watched as he took his belt off, why she herself had been the one to unzip his fly, why she had grabbed him and let herself go, making the most unladylike sounds imaginable, panting, gasping, moaning, screaming in pain/pleasure at the burning hot sensation of _him_... why she had made love to...

_No._

He was gone, and Susan wouldn't even _think_ his name; it would only make her cry, and she was in enough pain as it was—her contractions had started around seven in the morning and it was now half past noon. How much more of this was she supposed to endure?

Nine months. Nine months of pure hell. Nine months of watching her small, slender body (only 100 lbs, then) become grotesque and distorted as the little parasite grew inside her. Her soft white skin became blotchy, shining with sweat. Her gentle curls were now clumps of stringy frizz, matted with perspiration. She had often been sick—more often than most women who were... She squeezed her eyes shut. _No._ She wouldn't say it. In nine months she hadn't said it, and she wouldn't say it now. Not when it was all about to be over with.

Hyperemesis gravidarum. That was what the doctors had called it. God's way of punishing her—that was what her mother had called it. Whatever it was, it had made her violently ill throughout most of those nine months, kept her bedridden when she was not curled around the base of the toilet. God's way of punishing her…yes, it certainly was.

Her mother had been furious when she had found out. She hadn't said a word, merely taken out the walking cane that _her_ mother had used before she died and beaten Susan black and blue. Her daughter had raised her hands, choosing to protect her beautiful face from the blows of the cane instead of the child inside her. Her mother might kill the thing, and for a brief moment Susan was delighted at the thought, but then she remembered God.

Susan was a devout Catholic, and Susan knew:

God would be angry, God would not approve, God would want her to suffer for her foolish mistake that wasn't even her fault (or so she had convinced herself).

God would send her to Hell if she let this child die.

Reluctantly, breathing hard through the pain, the walking stick still crashing down on her fragile body, Susan had turned over on her side and curled into herself, though she refused to lower her hands to cover her stomach, unwilling to sacrifice her face. She never let herself believe that it was for the child's sake that she had done this; it was only to save her immortal soul.

There were times when Susan had wanted to do horrible things to the creature—things that involved sharp objects, certain herbs, falling down stairways, punches to the gut.

Every time the little demon twisted inside of her, causing muscles to contract horribly and making her run to the bathroom when she barely had the strength to crawl… Whenever she would spend hours heaving vomit, bile, and then nothing until she could only cling weakly to the toilet's rim, the burn of acid searing her throat, her legs sprawled out awkwardly in front of her, her flushed cheek pressed against the cool porcelain… Those moments when she would think that it was all over but then the…_thing_ would jerk to life again, making her feel as if her guts were trying to force themselves out through her mouth, and it would start all over again… She would fall over backwards, unable to hold herself up any longer, she would sob and cry and rake her brittle nails through her sweat-sticky scalp until it bled… She would wish for death, both the child's and her own.

It could have happened, if she had let herself choke on her own disgusting, acidic vomit.

Committing suicide was a sin, but was it still suicide if one did not have the strength to turn over and save oneself?

She didn't know. But she had forced herself onto her side anyway, but only because she did not want to die. Not because of some cancerous vermin, some bestial violation on her body had made her ill enough to wish for it. _No._ That would have meant letting the little monster win.

At times like these, she had wanted to kill the child.

But she hadn't. No…because when it was born…oh, when it was born…she would not envy being that child.

Susan Crane would never try to fool herself into thinking that she had been a good mother.

Because she had never intended to be one.

* * *

To say that she was beautiful was an understatement, and to say that he hadn't wanted to sleep with her would be a lie. Although, to say that he had done it with the intent of marrying her, having children with her, growing old and living happily ever after in their little white house in the suburbs with her? No, that would be a lie as well.

But to say that he was in love with her…that was where it became complicated.

One thing that he had always striven to avoid was uncertainty. It was so juvenile, so unprofessional. No one would ever take him seriously in the working world if he was uncertain of times and dates, important data, or especially himself. Since he could remember, he had always known exactly what he had wanted to do—graduate top in his class, earn a full-ride scholarship to a decent university, obtain his doctorate before the age of thirty, get a well-paying job at a teaching hospital, settle down with an intelligent woman (maybe one of the girls he had met in med. school), and have at least four kids since he had grown up in a big family and loved it even if money had been tight. That had been the plan, and he had always prided himself on his stick-to-itiveness.

Unfortunately, after meeting Susan Crane, he had become more uncertain of himself than ever before.

Did he love her? Had he ever loved her? He wasn't sure, and he knew that it was one of those things that he would always be asking himself.

As for the boy…he loved the boy. Or, at least, he thought that he _could_ have loved him. Easily. If he had let himself. On that single, too-brief occasion when he had met the child—his child—hers—no, theirs, _their child_—he had seen so much of himself in Jonathan. All of his intelligence, his curiosity, his determination… It really had been like seeing a miniature version of himself, even though the boy looked like his mother. Except for the hair. Susan was a blonde, whereas their son had the same dark, wavy locks as himself. It even curled slightly at the nape of the boy's neck, just like his.

His. His child. His son. His and Susan's.

It had been looking into the boy's eyes that had made him question his love for Susan. Seeing them and realizing that they were _hers_ had stirred something inside him that he could not explain. Love? He wasn't sure. But looking into his child's eyes, then slowly taking in the rest of him, and discovering that he looked like her…it had done something to him. It had made him reflect back to the days in high school, when he had first met Susan, when he had first realized his attraction, when he had first kissed her, when they had come together for the first and only time on the night before he left for college. It had brought back all of this memories of Susan—memories of happier times, before he had grown to hate her, hate her for tricking him, for thinking that she could control him, for thinking that he was the solution to all of her problems, and especially hate her for what she did to their son, leaving him with that _woman_ while she went off gallivanting with that spineless letch of an attorney. His so-called 'replacement.'

So, yes, he supposed that, when everything was said and done, he _did_ hate Susan. But still, there was a part of him, a very small part, that thought that he might have loved her at one time. Or at least, the pretty illusion that she had presented herself as. The fantasy of her.

Though handsome and well-liked by most, he had never tried to chat Susan up while they were in high school; he had known better. For one thing, Susan came from a household that was even more fanatically puritanical than his own, and for another, she only showed interest in rich boys. And for all of his supposedly wonderful attributes, wealth was not among them. She wasn't his type, anyway–that was what all of his friends had insisted—because she was a bit of an airhead. A money-grubbing, Bible-thumping airhead.

Whatever. That didn't mean that he still hadn't been attracted to her. And when, at last, on that seemingly unimportant day in November, she had approached him with apparent interest, he hadn't been able to help flirting a little.

He had always thought that it was funny because, up until he had met Susan, his friends had been right: He preferred the intellectual type. Or he had, at one point. But for some reason, it mattered very little to him that Susan was shallow and materialistic and didn't really give a damn about her grades because she fully intended to find a nice man to take care of her. Maybe it was because he had thought that she couldn't help it; that was simply the way she had been raised. Or maybe it was because he had secretly wanted to be the man who took care of her—she had always been one of those girls, the kind of girl that seemed so helpless and fragile, so ignorant of the world around them that one couldn't help but want to protect them. Whatever the case, he had always been able to overlook the fact that she was only feigning interest whenever he talked about his medical studies, or that she had lied when she said she'd understood him when he went on about the central nervous system and cerebral cortexes. He had always made exceptions when it came to Susan—yet another thing that made him question whether or not he loved her.

Soon, they had begun to date, though they made sure to keep it quiet lest Susan's mother find out and dissuade the girl through what he had always worried were violent means. At Susan's request, they had taken it slow—handholding to simple kissing, then on to what he considered proper lip-locking, to touching, tasting, practically everything save for the final act that would consummate their relationship. They were both determined to wait until marriage for that—well, Susan had been determined. Despite being raised Catholic as well, even at that time he had been leaning toward Atheism. Besides, it wasn't as if they had ever talked about getting married-or, at least, getting married to each other. They both knew that Susan was determined to tie the knot with a man who had money, although he had liked to think that he was more than just something for her to have fun with.

The night before he went away to college (the first two steps of his life's plan already completed), his friend Eddie had held a party in his family's barn. He had known that there would be a lot of booze, pot, and sex, and that it wouldn't really be up Susan's alley, but he had done the polite, 'smart boyfriend' thing and asked her if she wanted to go anyway, just in case.

She had shocked him by saying 'yes' almost immediately.

The night of the party, she had shocked him even more by asking him if he wanted a beer and then getting one for herself as well. Until then, he had had no idea that Susan drank. He would later come to realize that she didn't drink, not really, and that she had actually nursed one beer the entire evening, all the while allowing him to become more than slightly intoxicated.

The same thing went for getting stoned. When their friends had passed a joint around, he had watched Susan take a drag before handing it off to him, although, in all likelihood, she probably hadn't inhaled.

So, in the end, he had been completely wasted while Susan had been mildly tipsy at best. Really, it was no wonder that, when Eddie had lewdly suggested if he and Susan were finally going to make their relationship 'official,' he had gone against everything his parents had ever taught him about the sanctity of marriage and asked Susan if she would go with him to the hayloft.

What followed that, he would always be ashamed to admit, he was not entirely sure. He only knew that both he and Susan had lost their virginity and that they had been foolish enough to forego using any type of contraceptive. Of course, he didn't find out about the latter until he was well into his first semester at college, when his mother had called him long distance to rant and rave about the new rumors that were spreading like wildfire, the ones about Susan Crane's being pregnant, and to demand to know if he knew anything about it and if so, dear God, was he the father?

He had assured his mother that he knew nothing, that he was sure that it was all a bunch of cruel fabrications being circulated by people who were jealous of Susan's beauty and social standing. Yet the entire time, his heart had been pounding harder than he would have ever thought possible and his insides had twisted into painful knots. He had called Susan the minute after he had hung up with his mother.

"I'm going to be upfront about this, Susan," he had told her firmly. "My mother just called…" He took a low breath, steadying himself. "She said something about you being pregnant?"

A pause.

Really, that was all that he had needed. That single millisecond's worth of hesitation had said it all. Anything that Susan had told him after that had simply acted as further confirmation that what he had been fearing since the night that he had slept with Susan was fact. She was pregnant.

How?

"I thought you were on the pill? You said it was because your menstruation was so bad—"

"You're not supposed to talk about that!" Susan had gasped, sounding as shocked as if he had sworn, cursed both her and her 'sainted' mother to an eternity of sucking cocks in Hell. "Besides," she huffed, "you know birth control is against our religion—"

"So is sex before marriage, but that didn't seem to stop you," he spat out cruelly before he could stop himself. He had regretted it almost immediately when Susan began to cry.

"I-I…I thought you'd be h-_ha_ppy," she had sobbed, and he could practically see her standing there, shaking, her fingers tangled in the cord as they clutched desperately at the phone, tears sparking as they rolled down her pale cheeks.

Yet despite feeling guilty, he couldn't help but wondering, _Why in the hell would you think that?_ Christ, his friends had been right; this girl was an idiot.

"Look," he began, trying to calm her down. "I'm sorry. It's not that I'm not happy…I'm just not..._thrilled_."

Just when he had thought that it wasn't possible, Susan had begun to sob even harder.

"No, Susan–no, stop, please," he had implored her, cringing at every pitiful whimper she had made. "_Please_ listen? We…we just need to take a step back and think about this whole thing, you know? Figure out what we need to do…"

"You _know_ what we need to do," she had said, her tone matter-of-fact in spite of her tears. "We need to make this _right_. In the eyes of the Lord."

As she drew a shuddering breath, he knew what was coming.

Oh shit.

"We need to get married."

No. No. Absolutely not. No. That could not possibly happen—she couldn't have been serious, even though he had known that she was. It hadn't mattered. He had refused to be married. At that time, he had had his entire life ahead of him—and not only that, but his family (his mother, father, four sisters and two brothers) had been depending on him to come through for them. They had needed him, not this girl, not this idiot who had been too stupid to remember to take her—

"I thought you were on the pill," he stated quietly.

A watery sniff.

"Wh-what?"

"You _told me_ that you were on the _pill_," he said, feeling his anger begin to rise.

"What!? _No!_ No, you know I can't—"

"_I remember!_" he had snarled furiously. "I remember you saying it, Susan! I remember! Why are you lying to me?"

"I-I-I'm n-not—"

"Goddamnit, Susan, _tell me the truth!_" He had begun to yell into the phone at this point, right in the middle of the residence hall. People had stopped in their tracks, gaping at him, but he hadn't noticed. And even if he had, he knew that he could have cared less by then. Brilliant and logical as he was even then, he knew when things weren't adding up. Susan had been hiding something and had been too dense to realize what a terrible liar she was.

"I know you're lying to me and I want it to _stop!_ I'm sick of it! Tell me the fucking _truth!_ I know that you said you were on the pill, but now you're telling me that that never happened. So, either you were on the pill but it didn't work, or you lied and told me that you were taking it. Which is it? ……_Well?_"

Her words had been so drown out by her weeping that he hadn't been able to decipher her response. Or maybe she had said nothing at all, but simply cried. He had felt helpless, unsure of how to continue.

"Were you even drunk that night?" His voice was weak.

Again, her silence had answered for her. Even her sobs had come to a halt.

He ground his teeth in frustration, but refused to lash out at her like he had before.

"Susan…" He sighed, suddenly feeling much older than his eighteen years. And her, she was sounding more and more like a child with each passing second.

"What's going on, Susan?" he finally asked. "Tell me."

"Do you love me?" She had sounded timid but hopeful, determined.

"What?"

"_Do you. __**Love**__ me?_" she repeated more slowly, firmly.

"I—" He had stopped. _Did_ he love her? More importantly, had he ever told her that he did? A girl like Susan was always ready to pounce on a declaration like that. Perhaps he had? That night before he left for college…had he said it then? Had she? He couldn't recall another time when such a statement would have been made. But he wasn't about to ask Susan about it. At that point, he wouldn't have put it past her to lie and say that he had told her that he loved her.

"Susan," he said again.

"Because if you loved me, you would tell me to keep the baby," she rambled on. "You would tell me to…to do the right thing. You would marry me so that the baby wouldn't be a…a bastard. And you would come back home and help me raise it properly—once you'd gotten your degree or whatever it is you need, because then you'd be able to _pay_ for the baby! You'd have a good job by then, wouldn't you? You would be able to take care of it—with me. Because that's what you would do if you loved me: You'd come home and…and you would marry me now. Y-you would do what needs to be done…what's _right_."

He had never been proud of what he had said next.

"If. _If_, Susan. After hearing that, I…I really don't know what to think of you. I…" He sighed tiredly, shaking his head. "Goodbye."

He heard her bewildered "What…?" and hung up the phone.

* * *

There you have it: Jonathan's not-so-loving mom and dad. Well, not so much Dad; he isn't that bad a guy in comparison to Mommie Dearest. At the time, he was just a confused kid who convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. Of course, we know that he was very, very _wrong_, but then, if he _had_ been involved, I don't think that Jonathan would be Jonathan, y'know?

Notes

Susan Crane – so, I had most of Jonathan's past developed and even had this scene written _long_ before I was finally able to find a copy of _Scarecrow: Year One_. Hence, the slight alterations. Hope everyone is okay with that, since I'm kinda bent on his mother being called 'Susan' at this point.

Handsome Stranger – simply put, Jonathan doesn't know who his father is, so neither do we. Including me. For some reason, the name of Jonny's dad continues to elude me; so far, nothing I've come up with really feels right. I'm taking that as a sign and am therefore keeping him anonymous.

…in his family's barn… – gotta wonder what it says about me if I crack up because the words 'drunken barn dance baby' come to mind every time I think of how poor Jonathan was conceived. Then again, it could be worse, as my one friend pointed out: "At least he's not a 'prom night dumpster baby.'"

Hyperemesis gravidarum – this is a rare but incredibly severe form of morning sickness involving unrelenting, excessive nausea and vomiting, which often leads to dehydration and malnutrition, not to mention physical and emotional stress. And instead of only happening until the beginning of the second trimester like regular morning sickness, this tends to last throughout the entire pregnancy and sometimes even after the baby is born. Nobody really knows what causes it, though many believe that it's brought on by an adverse reaction to all of the hormonal changes that occur during pregnancy. Interestingly, I recently read that, in the past, a pregnant woman's psychological condition was seen as the cause of HG. Doctors thought that it was a woman's reaction to an unwanted pregnancy. Funny that.

**Disclaimer:** Susan Crane and her Handsome Stranger are (c) me. Can't say the same for anyone else.


	3. Laughing Wild

**Chapter III**

_**Laughing Wild**_

"The stings of Falsehood those shall try,

And hard Unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear if forced to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defiled,

And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe."

—from Thomas Gray's "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College"

**

* * *

**

Four days later, he was still fuming.

He simply could not wrap his mind around it—how, exactly, was that girl qualified to take on a case like Breedlove's? Allan _Breedlove!_ Murderer, serial rapist, and notorious manipulator—what had Gooding been thinking when he had assigned Breedlove to that…_novice_ Dr. Quinzel?

Ah, of course, Gooding _hadn't_ been thinking.

_At least, not with his brain_, he thought wryly as he waited for the elevator to arrive. It was infuriating to think that such an incompetent, unprofessional lech like Gooding was running the asylum. For God's sake, certainly he, himself, was more aware of Arkham's activities than his so-called 'superior' would ever be, and he was treating how many patients on top of conducting his own private experiments? Infuriating. Just in_fur_iating.

And then, that silly little girl hadn't had the sense to deflect Gooding's approaches. Well, she wouldn't, would she? Not when encouraging such behavior had undoubtedly served her well thus far.

_**Break her**_, the Scarecrow hissed fiercely.

_No_, he told the voice in the kind of tone reserved for scolding errant children. He had had this kind of argument with himself before, though normally he could keep his baser side in check while he was at work, all of his frustrations silently stewing in the back of his mind until the end of the day when he was at his apartment, alone, and could finally let his inner darkness be unleashed. However, it would seem that his frustration with Gooding and Quinzel was making the Scarecrow more active.

_**Yes**_, it insisted._** Show that whore what it means to feel Fear.**_

_No_, he thought again, more firmly this time. _There's too much of a risk involved. Besides, I'm sure that one session with Breedlove will be enough for her to realize that she's in over her head. If anything, he'll scare her off better than_ I_ could._

_**That's a **_**lie**_**. You **_**know**_** that's a lie. You want her like that, you want to watch her scream, watch her cry, watch her **_**writhe **_**in **_**terror—**

_Enough_, he demanded sharply and the Scarecrow abruptly went quiet—hopefully it would remain that way, at least until he was well out of the public eye. Temporary loss of control over his inner demons—he would be sure to add that to his ever-growing list of reasons to despise Dr. Harleen Quinzel. _Put it between 'her obnoxious and unwaveringly pleasant voice' and 'the fact that she is the quintessential embodiment of the _worst_ kind of people_,_'_ he sneered as he absentmindedly cast a glance down the hall.

And blinked, slightly stunned.

_This is not happening_, he thought in exasperation when he saw the girl in question walking toward him. Despite himself, he had to admit that, for such fluttery thing, she _was_ rather stylish with her blonde curls hanging loose around her shoulders; her smart, square-neck, silk dress that stopped just above her knees; and a tailored, waist-length, pewter suit jacket with light gray pinstripes. However, he wasn't particularly fond of the color of the dress—pastel blue was a little too cheery for his liking—though he supposed that she had thought that it would bring out her eyes, which it did, and he noted that today they were hidden behind a pair of small, black, oval-shaped glasses.

_I wonder if she thinks that wearing those make her smarter?_ He shook his head, trying to quell his growing agitation. There was no point in getting aggravated just yet. There was always the possibility that she wasn't looking for him or that she had no intention of taking the elevator. Nonetheless…

_Avoid eye contact. If she doesn't realize that I've seen her, she'll have no reason to stop_.

Impractical stiletto heels click-clacking on the tiled floor, Dr. Quinzel strode down the hallway until she stood right beside him.

_Damn it._

"Hello."

"Good morning," he said coolly, eyes on the elevator doors, though he was certain that she was glancing at him.

Stealing a quick look at her (yes, her insufferable child's eyes were on him), he sighed.

"Is there something the matter, Dr. Quinzel?"

_Yes, you're so pleased that I remembered your title, aren't you? _he thought snidely as she smiled.

"Oh, no. Not exactly."

"Well…good," he replied stiffly before turning his gaze back to the elevator doors.

"Although," she spoke up, "I'm sorry for not correcting you."

Slowly, he turned to look at her, eyebrows raised in question.

"When you mistook me for an intern," she explained. "I should've told you that I was a doctor."

"Ah."

"Sorry."

He shook his head.

"It's nothing."

Where in the _hell _was that elevator?

He glanced upward, seeing that the lift was taking its time, still four floors away.

"Maybe," Quinzel babbled on, "I'm just so used to people assuming I'm an intern, I don't think to tell them otherwise anymore."

_I doubt that you do much thinking at all,_ he thought dryly, looking up again. Three floors—it wasn't normally this slow, he was sure of that…

"That was sarcasm, by the way," she said awkwardly.

"I assumed as much," he replied flatly, noting that there were two floors left to go before the elevator would reach them. Then again, when it finally arrived, that would mean that he would be forced to share a small, enclosed space with this bratty little woman.

"Oh," was all that she had to say, looking a little downtrodden. Which was fine by him. Quite frankly, he could hardly bring himself to care if Quinzel (or anyone else) thought him rude, not when there were very few (if any) people that he hadn't deemed beneath him. He had been a child prodigy, for God's sake—he couldn't be blamed when the rest of the human race failed to keep up with his genius. Besides, it wasn't as if he had any desire to _talk _to this girl. And she seemed like the type who would pounce on the opportunity to strike up a conversation if he made his tone even slightly welcoming.

His eyes darted up again. _One more floor…_

Quinzel turned, looking like she was about to say something when there was a pleasant _ding _and a faint, clanking _whoosh _as the elevator stopped and its doors slid open. Ever the gentleman (his grandmother and her cane had made sure of that), he stepped aside to allow Quinzel to enter first.

And her smile was back. He could not comprehend that—mere seconds ago she had been dispirited, and now, here she was, _smiling _at him again, her eyes bright and secretive as if she knew some private joke. Before he realized what was happening, he found his thoughts drifting back to his days at primary school, when he would do something—something seemingly inconsequential, something harmless, something as simple as answering a question correctly (what was wrong with knowing who Washington Irving was?), using the words 'do it' in a sentence ("'Do it!'" some jock had sneered. "Hear that? He wants me to 'do it' to him! He really is a faggot!")...suddenly, the class would grow quiet except for the faint titter of stifled laughter and everyone would have amused glint in their eyes as they all shared a knowing smirk. They hadn't needed to exchange words; he knew that they were making fun of him, even if he didn't know why.

He glanced at Dr. Quinzel as he stepped into the elevator. Was that what she was doing now? Making fun of him? Mocking him for…what? Being chivalrous? Well, if that was the case, he could have always shoved her out of the way and stepped inside first. But no, instead he had been polite, and now he was being ridiculed for it.

In a way, the laughing eyes were worse than the voiced insults. At least with the latter he knew why he was being taunted, though it wasn't as if the subject matter often varied (people were too lazy to ever want to be creative). It was odd, in a way, that as a child he wanted nothing more than for the cruel jeers to stop. Yet as he had grown older, the hated laughter hadn't decreased, merely grown quieter until it could only be seen in their eyes, stifled by the pretense of politeness and maturity, but still just as strong as it had ever been. He found that, somehow, he hated that even more.

Women, he had noticed, tended to exhibit this behavior more frequently than men. For some reason, it had always seemed as if blonde women in particular had a penchant for making his life a living hell, or, at the very least, getting on his nerves. Three specific blondes came to mind (he ground his teeth in silent frustration), and now it appeared that a fourth was well on her way to joining their ranks.

_Add that to the list: She's blonde._

"What floor were you headed to?" he said aloud.

"Um, the sixth, I think," she replied.

More uncertainties! He gritted his teeth again. Good God, did this girl have _any_ idea what she was doing? The vaguest _clue _about anything at all? And on top of that—damn it, he had to go to the seventh floor, which meant being trapped with that tiny, blonde nitwit for the entire elevator ride.

"Not a fan of elevators?" Quinzel asked.

"What?" He turned to look at her, a little taken aback by the sudden inquiry.

She shrugged.

"You seem tense."

"I _am _a very busy man, Dr. Quinzel—"

"Oh, call me 'Harley,'" she cut in breezily. "Everyone does."

Absolutely _not_. He abhorred nicknames of any kind, mainly because of having to spend his childhood enduring all of the charming epithets that his 'peers' had christened him with. Besides, calling her 'Harley' would mean making the situation entirely too personal, too…friendly. And he certainly had no desire to befriend this girl.

He acted as though the interruption had never occurred.

"I have a lot on my mind, Dr. Quinzel," he said pointedly, taking off his glasses. "So you'll excuse me if I seem stressed. I assure you, it has nothing to do with the elevator."

This was at least partially true. Of all of the fears that he had forced himself to overcome, thankfully, claustrophobia had not been one of them.

"Oh," she murmured, looking like she did not know how to continue. "Well, that's…good, I guess. Not that you have too much on your mind. Just that you aren't afraid of elevators, I mean, considering there's like…12,000 elevator-related deaths and injuries per year? Something like that."

"Interesting," he commented, not bothering to correct her grammar. "Although I never said that I had too much on my mind. Merely a lot."

"Ah." She nodded in understanding—or rather, in what he imagined was a guise of understanding. "Guess that explains why everyone says you'll be in charge of this place, soon. Actually, I've heard you're practically running it now."

"I would advise you not to install too much trust in gossip," he told her dryly. "You never know when it might prove false."

"Well, you never know when it might be _true_," she countered evenly. "Besides, I think it's good to learn as much as we can while we can, don't you?"

Stiffening slightly, he pursed his lips, unwilling to flat-out admit that, yes, he couldn't have agreed with her more.

"It certainly isn't a _bad_ philosophy," he said at last.

She smiled in a way that made him wonder if she knew just how reluctant he had been to utter those words, but, thankfully, she changed topics.

"Is it true, though? You're gunning for Gooding's job?"

Again, he grew tense.

"I wouldn't put it quite like that…"

"Well, you know what I mean: You'd like to be the asylum's director?" she elaborated.

"If the position were ever offered to me, I wouldn't turn it down, if that's what you're saying."

"Mm," she hummed vaguely before sighing deeply through her nose. "I'm sure it would only be an improvement."

His eyebrows shot up. Whether he liked it or not, she had his interest now. Just what exactly was she implying? From what he had been able to gather, he was certain that Dr. Quinzel was a cloying little sycophant, but surely she wasn't so vapid that she would try to cozy up to _him?_ Unless…there was always the off chance that she referring to something else.

"What do you mean by that?" he inquired.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she replied, "Ah-m…nothing, really. Just that Dr. Gooding isn't as…organized as…he could be."

Ah. So not only was she the type of girl who put up a saccharine front when she was trying to win someone's favor; she also openly bad-mouthed them once their back was turned. How charming. The world needed another one of those.

_There's another one for the list_.

"I'm surprised you'd say that," he told her, taking care to keep his tone mild. "The two of you seemed to be getting along rather nicely when I saw you."

That one should have tripped her up, or at least made her blush. But apparently not caring about what he might or might not have been implying, she merely shrugged.

"I couldn't find it in myself to be annoyed with the man when he'd just agreed to let me take on Allan _Breedlove_."

Gritting his teeth for the umpteenth time, he refused to let himself be affected by that little reminder.

"Besides," she continued, "I tend to behave according to how people treat me. So, even if I'm not wild about the guy, it's hard being standoffish around him when he's being so nice to me."

He had to hide his distaste—Gooding was hardly what one would call 'nice.' Deceitful and self-serving maybe, lecherous and unprofessional definitely, but never 'nice.' Still, while _he _found it easier to distance himself from everyone (fewer distractions), he supposed that he could see her point, even if it was, well…a _pointless_ one. In the end, he felt that there was little that could be gained from being kind to someone simply because that was how they treated you. If two people resented one another, then they shouldn't try to mask their resentment with pretty façades.

_But then… Wait a minute._

"If you treat everyone as they treat you…" he began, slowly turning to face her fully, "…then how do you explain your behavior toward me? You must have noticed that I'm hardly what you would call a friendly individual."

"Oh, um…" she stumbled. Attention focused on her, he barely noticed that the elevator had begun to slow down.

"I'm curious," he pressed, and he found that he truly was.

"_Well_…"

The elevator lurched to a halt and doors glided open.

"You really wanna know? Honestly?" she asked as she stepped outside into the hallway.

"_Yes_," he sighed, exasperated.

For a moment, he thought that Quinzel expected him to follow her, but then, just before the _ding _sounded again and the doors slid shut, she turned around, that damn smile playing across her face again.

"I think you're funny."

* * *

Everyone knew that there was a risk involved when visiting the Narrows. This was especially true for those who had, for one reason or another, taken up jobs there and thus had to travel to the miserable island every day. These people knew that, if they wanted to return to their homes at the end of the day without getting mugged or stabbed or killed, they needed to drive straight to work and straight back with the doors locked and the windows sealed, making no stops, none unless it was absolutely necessary. And even then they would do well to think twice about it.

For anyone, it was dangerous to travel to the Narrows.

For women, it was even more dangerous.

For women who were small, young, and attractive, it was especially dangerous.

She knew the risks when she took a job at Arkham Asylum. She knew that she was a target. But at that point, she had known the former for years and the latter even longer; it didn't scare her off. She wanted the job too much—extreme cases had always fascinated her, ever since she was a child. It wasn't an over abundance of confidence that allowed her to be fearless in the Narrows, although she _had_ taken enough women's self defense courses to know how to handle herself if things got a little out of hand. It was more of a feeling of…apathy…toward death that kept her from being scared. She had always thought that there was no point in living in fear because was that really even living? She had long since come to the groundbreaking conclusion that death was inevitable and so there was little point in worrying about it. The past was past and _que sera, sera_; it was best to live for Right Now.

Granted, even she had to acknowledge just how stupid it was to stop at a 7/11 in the Narrows. But her car was running low on gas—there was barely enough (if any) to make it over the bridge, let alone return to her apartment. Even though she had realized this when she left for work that morning. And it wasn't as if she had been running late, either; there had been enough time to stop and refill her tank at a reasonably safe gas station outside of the Narrows. Stupid of her, really, not to take care of it then. Some might say that she was asking for it.

Stopping for gas in the Narrows.

Driving that sleek, black Mercedes Benz SLK.

Wearing that dress.

Looking the way she did.

Some might say that she was asking for it.

Maybe she was.

She would never be entirely sure. Even as a psychiatrist, it had always been a little vague, though she had long since discovered and accepted what was inherently 'wrong' with her: She didn't go out of her way to cause trouble, but she never did anything to discourage it from following her, either. That was part of her problem, anyway. The rest of it, she had already analyzed to the point where it wasn't worth dwelling on anymore. Although, she imagined that any shrink would have a field day if given permission to examine her head. Hell, even Dr. Crane might finally stop trying to ignore her.

As she pulled into the greasy, rundown gas station, she smirked at little at the thought of her colleague and the adorably confounded look that he had gotten earlier that day when she'd told him that she thought he was funny.

She had been telling the truth—he _was _funny. The way that he was trying so hard to make her resent him was obvious, and it amused the hell out of her. She was sure that that was an awful way to be, but there was little help for it. It was almost as if she was drawn to the man because of that. But then, she had always been intrigued by men and women who couldn't seem to stand her. Maybe it was because it was fun to watch—she was nice to them on purpose, which made them uncomfortable since they didn't know how to react. Or maybe she was simply curious as to why certain individuals detested her. Truthfully, she could recall very few people that didn't like her, let alone anyone who actually went out of their way to actively dislike her. The redheaded, buxom image of her roommate and best friend since college came to mind, since Pamela Isley had been reluctant to warm up to her, but Pammy had eventually gotten over that.

As for Dr. Crane, the man's initial frustration toward her was understandable. Despite being new to the staff, she had been assigned to the fascinating high security patient that the other doctor had clearly wanted. But surely her fellow psychiatrist would have gotten over that by now?

Apparently not, if his behavior toward her over the past four days had been any sort of indication. When Dr. Crane wasn't deliberately ignoring her he was belittling practically every word that she said. And she was certain that the rudeness was mainly directed at her and no one else. The man was quiet and distant when it came to his colleagues, occasionally making a brusque, intelligent statement. There was never anything personal about what he said, not even his opinions (if that made any sense). But it seemed that, when it came to her, his tones were (if possible) even more clipped, his comments more hostile, always with the derisive insinuation that he thought her an idiot. He was making a point of letting her know that he didn't like her. But why was that? It couldn't have all come down to Breedlove—she doubted that Dr. Crane was so childish as to hold a grudge like that. As it was, she could barely imagine such a serious and mature individual as a child at all (though she'd bet that he'd been a cutie).

Still musing, she parked at one of the available gas pumps and turned off her ignition.

Really, why was he putting forth such an effort just to make her hate him? Couldn't he simply let it go? Wouldn't that have been easier?

_Maybe it's not that simple_, she thought absently as she stepped out of her Mercedes.

_Misogynist? But then he'd be rude to Joan and Dr. Ruth, and all the other women at Arkham, and he's just distant with them._ She watched the numbers tally up. _Maybe he _is _a prick to them and I've just never been around to see it? But that still doesn't explain why he's so pissy toward women…_

_No,_ she concluded. _He's a jerk, but he isn't a sexist jerk. _

Her eyes flitted up to see a rusty pickup truck pull in two pumps away from her, its ancient, rotted body creaking and groaning as it shuddered to a halt. Feeling a little on edge (this was the Narrows, after all, where anyone would do anything for money—something she clearly had), she unscrewed the cap from the gas tank before turning to swipe her credit card through the machine, purchasing twenty dollars worth of fuel, all the while trying to estimate the amount of time it would take for her to dive into the car and retrieve the handgun from the glovebox. Just in case.

_Nasty break-up recently?_ she wondered before turning to insert the nozzle into the gas tank.

A break-up would make sense. Or maybe he had was prone to having bad luck with women, which would automatically make him suspicious of all members of the fairer sex. But why would Dr. Crane have any problems getting a girl? Rich, successful, young, attractive, and a _doctor_—wasn't he the type of man that every little girl was told to hope for?

Placing the nozzle back on the fuel dispenser, she smirked, imagining the look on feminist Pamela's face if the redhead ever heard her make such a horribly chauvinistic remark.

She was screwing the lid back onto the gas tank when suddenly, a thought occurred to her.

_Maybe he's afraid of girls?_

It was such a childish way to phrase the notion, but the ability to simplify had always been one of her strong suits. And what if she was right? What if he'd had a sheltered, ascetic upbringing with fanatically religious parents who taught him that any interaction with girls before marriage was a one-way bus ticket to Hell?

_He doesn't seem like the religious type,_ _although he's certainly uptight enough to be a Catholic… _she noted, remembering her brief stint in a Catholic high school. _Anyway, though, that still doesn't explain why he hates _me _so much…_

_Some cheerleader probably pantsed him in high school. I've go the look, so now he's taking it out on me. Makes so much sense, _she finally decided, feeling wry but frustrated with all of the dead ends that she kept hitting. She just didn't know enough about the guy to come to any rational conclusions.

With every intent to resolve that problem, she pulled open the car door and was about to slide into the driver's seat when a voice stopped her.

"Hi…"

She would never admit that she jumped; inattentiveness was a dangerous weakness that she tried to avoid. Turning around, car keys held in a vice grip, she was met with a startling sight: A man standing just a few feet in front of her, holding a switchblade out for all the world to see.

Oddly, it wasn't the knife that alarmed her as much as it was the man as a whole. Though he was not physically imposing—only 5'10 maybe and made up of lean, wiry muscle. Heat and tension seemed to radiate off of his body in thick waves, and he twitched, sweating, blinking rapidly, strung out. A bundle of nerves all wound up, coiled tightly like a spring, ready to go off at any second. Strung out—both from nerves and drugs. Or were the nerves a result of the drugs? He had to be somewhere in his late-twenties to mid-thirties, yet looked like he knew as much as a toddler did about taking care of himself. A hirsute, he must have been to be so covered in such thick, black hair. The wild mass of dark, corkscrew curls only encouraged the image of a spring and made it nearly impossible to make out his features: cracked and bleeding mouth, saliva trickling out and into a black, bushy beard; raw red nose, nostrils flared and hairy; dark eyes strangely bright, screaming with desperation and madness—all of it sunken into tan, weathered skin. He was clothed in rags: a hooded, zip-up camel-colored jacket, stained and tattered, one elbow worn all the way through; ragged jeans splotched with filth from the knees down; on his feet, a pair of once-white tennis sneakers held together with duct tape, both untied, the laces broken; a moth-eaten wool scarf, striped orangey-red and green, wound tightly around his neck; and a pair of faded, blue fingerless gloves covered the hairy, calloused hands that tightly clutched a switchblade. He gaped at her, face gleaming with sweat as his jaw worked soundlessly, fevered eyes stretched wide in his skull. At his wit's end, out of options, desperate.

The blade winked at her in the late afternoon sunlight.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Drastic times, drastic actions.

This was a man who saw her as a golden opportunity and a last resort. He had nothing left to lose, and that was what made him so dangerous.

He fidgeted where he stood, eyes never leaving hers.

"Hi…" he said again, revealing chipped, yellowed teeth.

She nodded once, flashing a tight smile. No need to agitate him by acting _too _neutral; she had dealt with enough violent patients to know that a lack of response usually sent them flying into a rage.

"Hi." An awkward pause. "…did you need help with something?"

He blinked at her, thrown off track by her question. Frowning slightly, he bit his lower lip, as if struggling to remember something. Then, raising his free hand, he gestured vaguely to the sputtering, rusted vehicle parked two gas pumps behind them.

"My…truckisbroken," he slurred in a rush, blinking at her again.

With a feigned cringe of sympathy, she shook her head, trying to slowly, carefully inch her way into the car.

"Oh…that's too bad."

"Yeah," he murmured, staring off into space. "Bad…" Suddenly, his gaze snapped back to her. "D'you wanna come take a look at it?"

"Oh," she started, beginning to feel angry and trapped, though her tone was calm. "Um…no, I'm sorry—I really need to be heading out—"

"Why?" he asked, tipping his head curiously and taking a step forward. "It'll be quick."

_I doubt that_, she thought cynically as her stiletto heels slipped a little on the slick pavement, causing her to all but fall into the driver's seat, slender legs still hanging outside the vehicle.

"Well, still, I'm kinda running late," she informed him, keeping her face impassive as he drew closer. The worst thing that she could do was show any emotion, especially fear. From working with the criminally insane, she had learned that they—this man and people like him—tended to crave that more than anything. Most found it arousing, watching someone small and weak squirm beneath them, screaming in wide-eyed terror. They relished in that, in overpowering all of those soft, meek, little girls, seizing the frail wrists in one massive hand, and breaking everything in sight.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, feeling incensed.

He had taken advantage of her vulnerable position, looming over her with one hand gripping the edge of the roof, the other—the one with the knife—on the back of the driver's seat.

"I think you should…you should have a look at my truck," he said, breath coming in foul, labored gasps.

"I don't have time," she said coldly, her fear slowly beginning to ebb away.

"A second, it'll take a second, one second," he chanted, eyes darting rapidly back and forth until he was suddenly focused on her again. "You should come look."

She didn't respond, but recoiled further into the car, knowing that it was hopeless to think that she had enough time to reach around, grab the gun from the glovebox, and shoot him before he took the whole millisecond required to stab her.

Before she knew what was happening, he had gone from quiet and dazed to frenzied rage, reaching inside to seize one of her tiny wrists.

"Come look—I said come_ look! _You're not _listening!_" he seethed, baring his rotten teeth, hand on her throat now, jagged nails digging into snowy flesh, pushing her down, shaking her so hard her head knocked painfully against the gear stick.

Her vision swam as she felt him kick her legs apart and place one knee between her thighs, pushing himself up and into the car, towering over her with a manic gleam in his eye.

She didn't know what he wanted—her money, her car, her blood, _her_. Her mind was blank. Yet she felt livid, the edges of her vision tinged with blinding, hot white—too angry, far too angry, to be afraid.

The switchblade flashed in the corner of her eye, suddenly hovering above her. Their eyes locked. For one second, she forgot to breath.

Some might say that she had been asking for it. But then, anyone who knew her well might say the same of him.

Just as he was about to bring the knife down, she drove her knee into his gut. Eyes wide, he gasped in pain and shock, not noticing her purse until in collided with his head.

He swore and drew back a little, but recovered quickly and reached for her again—

_CRACK!_

Her foot connected with his nose, once, twice, again and again until bruises formed, until flesh was split and blood began to pour from the wounds. Blinded by rage, she drove four-inch stiletto heels into him, arms braced against the seat and the steering wheel for support, kicking violently with all her strength.

Her little blue shoes were stained scarlet as rivulets of blood rolled over her feet and down her legs. She didn't notice—didn't care—just kept kicking, over and over. How dare he touch her—how dare he!? He was every filthy, depraved lunatic she had ever heard about or met. He was the embodiment of every predator, every child molester, every rapist—every single person who had ever watched, taken, hurt, maimed, raped, killed…

She didn't want him near her; he made her skin crawl and she felt violated just by being around him. She wanted him away from her. She wanted him gone, and her kicking grew more frantic as she fought to drive him away. _Get away! Get away! Don't touch me!_

He screamed, and still her feet continued to pummel him, her fury drowning out all noise until one swift kick sent him staggering back, wailing in agony, a shoe lodged into his skull and blood streaming down his face.

His face… It wasn't a face anymore. It resembled ground meat—just a mass of red, purple, black, and the two shining pits that were his eyes. They rolled around in a sickly manner, then back into his head as he reeled wildly, arms flailing as he crashed into the gas pumps behind him.

She was on her feet in an instant, fists raised, ready to do whatever it took to make him get away from her.

_Leave… Leave!_ she screamed in her mind, watching as he stumbled about, his blood dripping onto the pavement. She wouldn't reach for her gun…no…not when he was so close, he could still catch her…

He tripped over his own feet and almost went spiraling head first into the ground but caught himself just in time. His eyes flitted up and met hers.

She tilted her chin up defiantly, lips pressed together tightly, chest heaving.

He began to back up slowly, nearly tripping again as he began to pick up speed, then turned a little, his head constantly snapping around to look at her as she watched him stumble, stagger, fall until he finally turned tail and ran—in the opposite direction, running away, far away, away from her…

Suddenly exhausted, her fists dropped to her sides. Moving slowly, in a daze, she tucked herself into her car and locked the doors.

She didn't even wince when she leaned back too quickly and the headrest connected with the bruise that the gear stick had made on the base of her skull.

She felt…high. Though her foggy brain could barely form a coherent thought let alone sufficiently analyze every narcotic she had ever ingested or prescribed until it found the one who's effects were even slightly similar to what she was feeling now. She was dizzy yet strangely aware; her limbs were heavy but she was awake. Numbly giddy or giddily numb—or giddy and numb, one or the other, both or neither…

Eyes sliding shut, she pressed a hand to her mouth. She wasn't making any sense…

Where was her shoe?

She glanced down, seen two tired, blood-spattered legs…but her right shoe was gone. Then she remembered: one powerful kick and... Had he run off with her shoe still imbedded in his brain..?

_Oh my God…_

A giggle escaped her.

Eyes wide, she gasped, quickly silencing herself. That was terrible—but it was _funny_. Some hopped-up lunatic threatened her, tried to do God only knew what to her…and she put a shoe through his head. A little, blue satin shoe—that looked a little like a ballet slipper with a heel.

She giggled again.

"Oh my _God…_"

And had he even gotten back into his truck? Or had he forgotten all about it and run away screaming?

A glance to the left told her that the rusted pickup was still there. Still running, too.

_Guess that answers _that _question._

This time, she snorted, clasping her hands over her mouth and nose in an attempt to quell her amusement. But it was no use. Her laughter was bubbling up inside her at an alarming rate, rising uncontrollably until she was overcome with hysterics.

What a _bastard! _She couldn't believe that she had taken him out—and with her shoes! Her Goddamn _shoes!_ She cackled at the thought. And Pammy could never, _ever _give her shit about 'impractical footwear' again, not when those cute little things had saved her.

_That must be why they call them stiletto heels…_

She howled again, falling back into the seat, her sides aching, her lungs burning for air.

"Oh God…oh my God…" And she dissolved into snickers once more, tittering incessantly, her entire body crippled by hilarity that reduced her to a gasping and shaking mess, barely able to breathe yet still able to find amusement in the thought that she might have saved herself only to die moments later when she was suffocated by her own giggling.

_I really do kill myself!_

In stitches at the thought, she collapsed against the steering wheel, forehead pressed against cool leather, shoulders quivering as she was suddenly seized by another inexplicable bout of laughter that took her to the point where she was almost sobbing, tears rolling down her cheeks.

_Good thing my mascara is waterproof._

A hum of amusement pushed past her lips as she weakly shook her head. Too much, it was all too much…

She was still laughing as she drove away.

**

* * *

**

Notes

_**You want her like that…watch her **_**writhe**_** in **_**terror**– if this comes off as sounding slightly sexual, then I have achieved my goal. On that note, as I said before, a part of me thinks of the Scarecrow as being sort of a combination a protector, all of Jonathan's darkest thoughts manifested into this twisted sort of imaginary friend, and his grandmother. The last one is included because 1.) I see her as being one of Jonathan's greatest fears, 2.) she was definitely one of the main reasons behind his creating the Scarecrow, and 3.) I think he mentions in _Scarecrow: Year One _that she's the one that taught him about fear, and since the Scarecrow claims to be 'fear incarnate,' I thought that it was only fitting that he (it? that sounds more sinister, anyway) share such a demented and terrifying woman's characteristics. Hence, calling Harley things like 'jezebel,' 'whore,' et al, even though the Scarecrow is hardly a prude. I don't think Jonathan is schizophrenic or that he has a split personality (since, from what I've read, that would mean that Jonathan was unaware of the Scarecrow, which he obviously isn't). It's more like the Scarecrow isn't another personality as much as it's Jonathan's darker side. Well, his even _darker_ side, since he isn't exactly a sweet individual by himself. But really, I see the Scarecrow as a manifestation of Jonathan's self-doubt and paranoia. It's the part of him that can't imagine anyone being sincerely nice to him (they're either mocking him, or they want something from him) and the part that thinks that those individuals should suffer for misleading him. Yet at the same time, there's the logical, egotistical part of Jonathan that keeps him from doing anything too rash. Personally, I think I do a lousy job of presenting this because I think it's too clear that there are several distinct differences between these two aspects of his personality: the Scarecrow is more animalistic and demanding; Jonathan is fascinated by fear and does find pleasure in making others scream but he's mainly focused on the research, yet part of him simply craves fear and that's all there is to it; the Scarecrow's dialogue is much more blunt and vulgar than Jonathan's, not because I think that Jonathan would be offended by swearing, just that (due to his upbringing) he would think it beneath him to cuss and wouldn't be accustomed to saying anything rougher than the occasional 'damn' or 'oh hell;' and, lastly, the Scarecrow is also more sexual than Jonathan is. Sorta. I think I said before that I see Jonathan as being asexual, but I imagine the Scarecrow as being more than willing to do whatever it takes to invoke terror in someone—including rape—because all this part of Jonathan cares about is instilling fear. That, and I can't help but think that the Scarecrow might even be turned on by the sight of someone writhing in terror. Maybe.

…she _was_ rather stylish… - even though I'm not particularly wild about the outfit that I decided to put Harley in. I wanted it to be something…professional-yet-playful, I think, is the best way to describe what I'm going for as far as pre-insanity Harley's look is concerned. With her attire in this chapter, I knew that, because of the events in the second scene, I wanted it to be something that sort of showed off her figure (hence the dress) but I wanted to be a light color so that 1.) it contrasts sharply with her attacker's blood and 2.) so Jonathan can bitch about it being 'too cheery.' :-P I worry too much about aesthetics, I know

…he wasn't particularly fond of the color… – my Jonathan is very stylish, although not fanatically so; he's just a very classy individual. The man wears a sweater vest, for God's sake!

a pair of small, black, oval-shaped glasses – this is completely irrelevant, but I just wanted to make a note of this: I love Harley and Jonathan's matching "geek chic." It's too cute for words, seriously. :-P

Ever the gentleman – despite his being a cold, egotistical prick, I dothink that Jonathan would give off an air of politeness, if only because it's part of his superiority complex and because his grandmother felt that, just because he's the bastard son of her wayward whore of a daughter and some mystery man, doesn't mean that she couldn't beat a sense of decorum into him.

…using the words 'do it' in a sentence… – again, based on personal experience, though I rather wish that it wasn't. For some reason, my entire fourth grade class was utterly fixated on sex, even though none of us were really old enough to know anything other than the absolute basics. But it was like you couldn't say the words 'nuts,' 'do it,' 'enter,' 'thing,' 'go inside,' or anything like that without the entire class giggling like a bunch of idiots. I think it actually got to the point where you couldn't even say 'but' anymore. Trust me, it got really old, really fast. Meanwhile, ten-year-old me was just like, "Um…yeah? Sex. Whatever." But that's probably what comes from being raised by parents with European mindsets.

"…12,000 elevator-related deaths and injures per year" – according to the statistics I found, anyway. Kinda put me off riding elevators—at least, moreso than before. :-P

"I think you're funny." – I debated over this line a lot and had trouble deciding whether I wanted to end Scene I with that or "You amuse me." The second one would have worked, but I think that it sounds a little too evil villain-esque or something. And Harley isn't quite there yet, and even if she was, I don't think that she would say something along those particular lines, anyway.

…_que sera, sera_ – comes from the song of the same title and means "What will be, will be."

…insert the nozzle into the gas tank – I think that Freud would have something to say about sexual implications that this image may provoke. She's a girl thinking about a guy, said girl is attracted to said guy in some form, and she's thinking about his love life as she's getting gas. So, basically, good ol' Sigmund would probably say that Harley's subconscious wants to jump Dr. Crane's bones. But I wrote the damn story and I'm saying that it doesn't. :-P

A man standing just a few feet in front of her… – in a weird way, I feel bad for this guy, almost to the point where I wish that I'd given him a name like Stephen or something. He's a poor addict who's desperately in need of help—especially now that he has Harley's shoe sticking out of his head. I tried to keep his dialogue, clothing, build, and overall persona different from the stereotypical mugger/rapist just because those creeps have been done to death. And I also wanted to keep his intentions vague. Like Harley says, we really don't know what he wanted from her, though rape is implied.

…watching someone small and weak squirm… – therein lies the difference between Jonathan's desire to cause fear and that of most other criminals. Having been severely bullied as a kid for being so small and skinny (and smart ;D), I don't think that Jonathan would want to use his toxin on who share the same physical traits, unless he felt that they deserved it, like he currently does with Harley. But back to the point, to him, attacking the weak would make him no better than the people who tormented him—and, of course, he knows that he's much better than those simpletons.

…a shoe lodged into his skull… – this entire scenario is based on a true story that happened to a friend of mine. First thing that should be known is that she's a runner who's fetish for high heels rivals my own. So, one day she was pumping gas when this guy came out of nowhere and threatened her. To this day, we're not entirely sure what he wanted, and he was very sloppy about the whole thing—he did it in broad daylight, in a semi-crowded parking lot with surveillance cameras, and he didn't even have a weapon. Anyway, he pushed her into the driver's seat of her own car, trying to corner her, and she proceeds to kick the crap out of him until he runs away screaming with one of her stiletto heels stuck in his head. No lie. And, unlike Harley, my friend wasn't overcome with hysterical laughter afterwards, just so you know. Although it _was _funny when the guy later tried to sue _her _for assault.

**Disclaimer:** So far, I don't own anyone except the creepers of this story: Dr. Gooding, Mark Tess, Allan Breedlove, and poor "Stephen."


	4. The Happy Couple

**Chapter IV**

_**The Happy Couple**_

***First** – stop what you're doing and go to http:// www. arkhamhasmoved. com and watch. It's back. Oh my God, it's _back_. …and she's still wearing that outfit, but still, it's back! :D Okay, now feel free to read.

* * *

Sheryl Collins had never been the social type. She had always wished that she was, but she was terrible at making conversation with people that she didn't immediately feel comfortable around—and they were few and far between. For all of her power in the courtroom, she was awkward when it came to human interaction and, because of this, didn't have many friends. But sometimes, when they bothered to pay any attention to her, the few that she did have would call her a walking contradiction. Or a doormat. And, if she were to be honest with herself, Sheryl would have to admit that she could understand why they said that.

She liked to do things on her own terms. She wanted be accepted and loved for who she was and hated the thought of agreeing (or disagreeing) with someone just to get them to like her. Doing so went against everything that she wanted to stand for: empowerment, confidence…

But, for all her super woman desires, Sheryl was, first and foremost, a people pleaser and often found herself compromising her principles.

Well, not compromising them so much as…adjusting them (automatically, without even realizing it) to better suit those around her. At the time, it would just seem like what they were saying made more _sense_.

Though, before she'd met Jackie, she had never made any drastic changes. They had always been minimal, things like colors of wallpaper, what shoes to wear with that outfit—things like that. Little. Insignificant.

And this hadn't been _that _big a change and she hadn't done it _just _to please Jack—he had always made it clear that everything she did was up to her—and, besides, she had always wanted to go blonde.

Ultimately, though, she had done it for a man. It had made Sheryl's feminist friends sick, though they were all too polite to say anything. She wished that she could have shared in their disgust—and a small part of her did,_ really_—but she couldn't deny that she _did _look better now that her hair was no longer that dull brown color of cold dishwater. And Jackie liked it, too, even though he had never said anything about her hair before and he'd looked surprised when she'd told him that she was thinking of dying it.

But everyone knew that Jackson loved blondes, and she was so scared of losing him.

It was stupid, it really was. Jack loved her, always had, since the day they'd met in college during their junior year, and now that she was in a family way, she shouldn't have been able to fathom the idea of him leaving her, especially over something as trivial as _hair_. In her condition, it was unhealthy for her to keep dying it, and she and Jackson both wanted what was best for the baby. But just as she was beginning to chide herself for being so melodramatic, she always remembered that the pregnancy hadn't been planned and that she and Jackson weren't even _married_, so it wasn't as if he had any obligations to live up to. If he really wanted to, he could leave her.

But he _wouldn't_, Sheryl would tell herself firmly, because he _loved _her, he wanted to be with her, and they would get married eventually. Jackie had promised her that they would—and before the baby was born, too, not that having a kid out of wedlock was terribly important to either of them. Well, to Jackson it wasn't and Sheryl didn't _really _care, but she wanted to spare her child any questions from nosey neighbors and the hassle of filling out legal documents. True, people were becoming more tolerant, these days, but there were still those who frowned upon illegitimate children, and she just wanted her baby's life to run as smoothly as possible, without any unnecessary glitches. It _wasn't_ shame.

Things could have been so much worse than they were. Neither she nor Jackson had had to quit school, she could still be a lawyer, he could still earn his MD, both of their parents had been upset but understanding (she didn't like the health risks that came with taking The Pill and, unfortunately, sometimes condoms broke), and though they were on a budget, they were financially stable, for the most part. Yes, things could have been a lot worse.

So why this paranoia? Sheryl blamed it on hormones, like everything else, though she knew that she had harbored these irrational fears long before she had gotten pregnant. Nightmarish ideas about Jackson hurting her, cheating on her, leaving her…all silly and unfounded because she _knew _that he would _never _do that.

* * *

During his first three years of college, Jackson Quinzel had garnered a reputation for being a bit of a womanizer—okay, so 'man-whore' was what everyone had called him, hopping from party to party, wearing that charmingly lopsided smirk of his, downing shots, smoking joints, and always finding someone new to take home. How he stayed on the dean's list, no one was quite sure, though there had been the half-serious rumors about him sleeping with several of his professors, even the male ones. Sheryl had thought that all the talk had just been another jibe at what a slut the guy was, but Jackie's vague response when asked had always made her wonder.

But, at the risk of sounding like some starry-eyed, lovesick teenager, Sheryl knew that all of that had stopped after he had met her. Maybe not initially, but once they had started to get serious, Jack had straightened out and confessed that, anymore, he felt like shit when he slept with someone who wasn't her. In truth, she had never minded the other women—they were young, trying new things, and if that was what he wanted to do, then fine so long as she could still be with him—though she, herself, had never been in an open relationship. It wasn't that she was a prude (no matter what her good grades and classy clothes might have said), just that, when she fell for someone, it was hard to find anyone else appealing. When Jackson had heard about this, instead of finding her reservations stupid and childish, he had said that it just made him feel worse about banging all those other women.

And then, he had stopped. He'd broken it off with all the other girls and committed himself to her. Just like that.

Sheryl supposed that it was need that kept her worried, her desire to be loved and cared for. Her parents loved her, of course, but they had never been very good at showing affection. Neither was she, to be honest, but that didn't mean that she didn't long for it. Perhaps that was why she had always devoted herself so completely to every boy she had ever dated, why she always fell so hard so quickly, and why it seemed to take ages for her to recover. It wasn't dependency. She could get by without a man, and she could do it easily. It was a desire that she wanted very badly to fill.

But Jackie loved her. She knew that he did. But she didn't know what she would do if he ever left her.

When people asked him if he ever wished that he had had a son, Jack was always honest with them.

"No. Not really."

It would have been nice to have had a boy, but that didn't mean that he wasn't just as happy with his girls.

Sometimes, a fellow dad would be bragging up his son's Little League game, and Jackson would mention attending one of the activities that his daughters were involved in. The other dad would usually give him a sympathetic look and say something like, "Glad I don't have to go to any of that" or, if the man could relate, "Yeah, I hate having to sit through those boring things."

At first, he had always found it odd, but after a while Jack couldn't help but grow annoyed whenever other fathers would treat going to their daughters performances as if it was a chore. An agonizing chore that their wives browbeat them into doing. Jack just couldn't understand it—he _liked_ attending Karen's piano recitals and Harley's gymnastics competitions. It didn't matter that neither activity had ever really piqued his interest before; he enjoyed them _now_.

Sherri had been so surprised by his enthusiasm, it had been kind of funny. He imagined that she must have assumed that she would always be the involved parent and that he would've been just like all the other dads and only ever show up for the games. But Jack took the girls to their practices just as often as his wife did, watched Harley fall on her ass until she'd finally executed a perfect cartwheel, and listened to Karen stumble through "Ode to Joy" until he thought he'd developed a permanent twitch in his left eye. It was simple math: He loved his girls, so he supported whatever they did and enjoyed it because he was proud of them, just like any father of a football star might have been.

Plus, having daughters meant that he got to exercise his "gay side," or so his friends in college had called it. Much as he loved Sherri, she had never shown much interest in clothes and even when she did, she only ever bought the outfits that she'd seen on the mannequins. Somebody had to teach the girls how to dress.

Jackson wondered, vaguely, how many other dads would voluntarily don long white gloves, a big straw hat, and a pink feather boa to have a tea party with their kids. He doubted that the number was high.

His own father hadn't been an cold, testosterone-driven bastard by any means, but he had always pressed upon Jack the importance of being a man, telling him what a man should and shouldn't do, that sort of thing. And Jack had never gotten along well with authoritative figures—very pro fuck the system, and the established order, and all that jazz to kingdom come. So he had rebelled against his dad, using fruity-smelling shampoo meant for chicks, owning more than two pairs of shoes, and watching "those faggy French art films." The fact that he actually _liked_ all of those things drove his old man crazy, but he had always chalked it up to Jackson's "not being quite right in the head."

Whatever. He couldn't help it if he would've made an attractive woman.

Thinking back on it, it might have been better that he _had_ had girls. His sons would have probably grown up to be cross-dressers.

Not that he was a pansy, by any means. Small and skinny though he was, Jack knew that he was a wiry bastard who wouldn't go down after just one punch.

_Never hit a crazy person, right?_ he had always mused.

Sherri had once remarked that she always felt safe whenever they went out together because Jackson had a look about him that said, quite simply, "Don't fuck with me." And she knew that, if someone _was _dumb enough to try anything, he'd be able to protect her. The girls had said the same thing.

That didn't mean that he didn't want them to know how to hold their own in a fight. He had tried to teach Sherri self-defense, but she could be stubborn and was perfectly content to let him do all the fighting. He had never cared much for that, sometimes worrying about what his wife would do if he wasn't there to keep her safe, but it was a thought that he didn't like to dwell on for very long. Though it was also why he wanted his girls to be able to take care of themselves.

At age nine, Karen was already beginning to take after her mom, which Jack found both endearing and worrisome. The thought of having a mini replica of Sherri was adorable, but he hoped that his daughter wouldn't grow up to be quite as neurotic or unaffectionate. Not that he faulted his wife—he loved her dearly and couldn't imagine being married to anyone else. She was smart and quirky, gorgeous and sensible—just what a guy like him needed, really: someone to reel him in when he was in over his head. But for all her appealing qualities, Sherri could be a bit…distant, at times. He blamed her parents. Not that he didn't _like _her parents—he did—it was just that they had raised their daughter in such a reserved manner. They told her how much they loved her, but Sherri had explained that they never expressed it physically, leaving her with a strong desire to be kissed and touched but also no knowledge of how to do any of that herself. That he was naturally a warm and loving person was yet another reason why they worked so well as a couple. In time, he had helped her melt just a little. Touching wasn't so alien to her, now.

But Sherri could still be highly systematic and organized, which, Jack supposed, was a good thing when one was a lawyer. But his wife's behavior sometimes bordered on obsessive, making her lock herself in her office for hours to go over case files or convincing her to fixate on a single issue and ignore everything else. Like her damn hair. Sure, he liked blondes, but that didn't mean that Sherri needed to be one. But she always swore that it was what she wanted, so he decided not to argue.

Although, it kind of annoyed the hell out of him whenever she told the girls how happy she was that they were both natural blondes. Like him, though Karen still looked more like her mother with her green eyes and longer, more willowy frame. A classic beauty. Harley, he could tell, was going to grow up to be himself as a woman, both in appearance (gamine and elfin, but crackling with energy) and personality.

He had never liked the name 'Harleen,' but he liked 'Heather,' which was what Sherri had wanted to call her, even less. The former seemed far too dowdy and serious for one of his kids and he had only ever known pretentious snobs to go by the latter. If he had had his way, Jackson would have called her 'Hailey,' but Sherri hated take name for the same reason he despised 'Heather.' So they had finally settled on 'Harleen' as a compromise, and shortly after that, he had taken it upon himself to do what he did with most everyone's name and cut it down and add 'ee' to the end. From there on, she became his little Harley-girl, Harley-baby, Harley-kins, and, from that, Harley-_quin_ (zel). However, as harlequins were notably silent performers, the last one was used less frequently once it became clear that his youngest was rather chatty. Like him. And he would also call her 'peanut' because she was so small, or 'button' because she was so cute, yet he didn't really have any nicknames for Karen aside from ones like 'honey,' 'baby,' 'sugar'—general nicknames that he applied to most girls.

Jack didn't approve of picking favorites, especially when it came to his kids, and he always tried to devote an equal amount of attention and affection to both of them. But it would have been a lie to say that there wasn't a small amount of favoritism shown within his household. And it wasn't just from him, either. Sherri spent more time with Karen, and as for Harley… she was clearly her father's daughter. He didn't know if he and his wife could take complete responsibility, however; it seemed that their daughters had gravitated toward each parent on their own, preferring to be with the one they could relate to the most.

So it was no surprise when, one day, his seven-year-old, blonde baby doll burst through the front door, crying her eyes out, and immediately went to him instead of her mother.

Jack was on his feet in an instant, ready to beat the shit out of whatever had hurt her. Anger was still coursing through him even as he pulled her into his arms and asked in a soft, gentle voice, "What happened, Harley-girl? What's wrong?"

"Teddy _pushed_ me," she gasped into his shoulder, clinging weakly to his red flannel shirt.

Teddy Riley, that little shithead… Jackson's mind briefly flashed to the brown-haired, brown-eyed, dopey-looking neighbor kid in Karen's third grade class. Normally, Teddy got along well with Harley and Karen, but if any other boys came around to play, that usually spelled trouble. They tended to gang up and tease the girls, and Teddy always joined in for fear of being ridiculed himself. Jack sincerely hoped that he hadn't been like that when he was Ted's age and took the fact that he had always gotten along better with women as a sign that he hadn't.

He looked at Harley, gently thumbing the tears off of her cheek.

"Why'd he push you, button?"

"He, well…Adam and Nicky were there," she started to explain.

_Two more assholes_, Jack thought, nodding for Harley to go on.

"So, so they started acting like jerks and then Teddy started, too, like he always does, and then, then they dared me to…" She broke off, pink tingeing her pale cheeks.

"Dared you to what?" he prodded gently.

Harley chewed her thumbnail like she always did when she was worried, before leaning in and whispering: "Touch Teddy's weenie."

Jack's eyes grew wide—possibly wider than they'd ever been. Just what the hell was wrong with kids these days? Never in his life would he have called himself a prude and, especially as a pediatrician, he was well aware of all the fun discoveries made by boys when they were Teddy's age, but, _Jesus_… He'd sure as hell never whipped out his little rascal and made a first grade girl _touch _it. Jesus _Christ_…

"That—fu—uhmm…" He paused for a breath, trying to get all of the cuss words out of his system before speaking to his seven-year-old. "You didn't, though, did you?"

"Ew, _no!_" Harley cried in revulsion, and Jack felt a faint smile of relief tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Good girl. I don't ever wanna hear about you doing that—even when you're old enough, okay? That's the kinda shi—stuff that puts Daddy in an early grave."

Harley nodded solemnly, pigtails bobbing. "Okay."

"So, he pushed you down because you wouldn't…"

"Yeah! I said 'No, that's _gross'_ and he got all mad cuz Adam and Nicky started saying I didn't wanna see his teeny weenie," her voice dropped to a whisper again, "and so Teddy pulled my hair and called me a scaredy cat and a baby and _pushed _me."

"That dick…" Jackson muttered, not thinking. Harley blinked in confusion.

"His name's '_Teddy,_' Daddy."

"What? Oh. No, I meant…nevermind. And don't repeat that to your mother."

"Okay…"

"All right. Now, lemme think…" He needed to do 'the right thing' and speak with Teddy's parents, though he doubted that much good would come of it. Judy and Andrew Riley were nice enough (a little boring for him) and were not opposed to dishing out punishments when they felt that their son deserved them. But he had a feeling that a touchy subject like this (no pun intended) would only result in a long and uncomfortable talk about puberty, sex, and the dangers (and importance) of masturbation. And that simply did not sit well with him. Briefly, Jack wondered if kicking a eight-year-old boy in the 'nads would violate his duties as a pediatrician. Of course, he knew perfectly well that he couldn't really do anything, and he found himself almost wishing for the days when it had been okay for people to slap their neighbors' bratty kids around. But then he looked down at Harley and all of those bitter, half-joking thoughts left him.

The thought of anyone pushing his girls around made his blood boil. Though his dad had never laid a finger on his mom, Jack vividly remembered a time when the old man had come close to it and slammed his fist into the wall beside Mom's head, he had been so angry. It was the closest thing to domestic abuse that he had ever seen, and though his father had been guilt-ridden afterward, Jackson knew that from then on, he would do what he could to keep the women in his life safe from harm, even if he wasn't around. And that meant teaching Harley and Karen to stand up for themselves and fight their own battles…

He sighed. "Okay, peanut, here's the deal: That little punk's gonna keep messing with you unless you do something about it. Telling on him works, but not for long, and it'll really only give him more of a reason to come after you. So if you want him off your case, you need to nip this in the bud—and I don't just mean calling him names or ignoring him or stuff like that. Next time he starts giving you a hard time, you've gotta knock him on his ass, understand?"

She nodded.

"But how do I do that?"

"You fight dirty," Jackson explained. "Hit him when his back is turned, or pretend to cry and then punch him in the nose when he comes near you. Trust me, he won't be expecting you to fight back."

"But then he'll hit _me_," his daughter protested.

Jack shook his head. "That's the thing about being a girl: Teddy might push you down and call you names, but he'll never really hit you—not like he'd hit another boy, anyway. And if he _does _hit you, _that's _when you come get Daddy."

"Okay," she agreed, looking determined if a little bit tearful.

He smiled encouragingly and kissed her forehead.

It was about a week later that Harley came home with her hair a mess and bloodstains on her shirt, practically beaming. Sherri was horrified, thinking that their daughter had somehow gotten hurt, but then Karen came rushing into the room, yelling, "Harley punched him! Harley punched him!"

"Who?" Sherri demanded.

"Teddy Riley!"

"_What?_"

Jackson bit the inside of his cheek, sitting forward a little as he glanced at his appalled looking wife. Well, it was certainly going to be fun explaining this…

"He was being a jerk and she punched him!" Karen answered.

"Oh, for God's sake, this isn't true—"

"Is so," both daughters chimed.

"And she made him _bleed?_" Sherri asked skeptically.

"_Yes_," Karen insisted.

"I think I broke his nose, Mom," Harley added excitedly. She giggled, bouncing on the balls of her feet and looking immensely pleased with herself, while her sister seemed torn between amusement and anxiety.

"Button, you _didn't?_" Jack finally cut in, feeling proud of his daughter yet knowing that he couldn't sound too enthusiastic if he didn't want to piss off Sherri.

"I…_think_ I did," Harley replied uncertainly, biting her thumbnail.

"Well, did it crack when you hit him, or was there just a lot of blood—"

"Jackson, you don't really think that she hit him?" his wife asked, tone sardonic but slightly tinged with worry.

He shrugged. "Why not? I can see it happening." He casually scratched his nose, looking away as he muttered, "Especially since, uh…I told her to do it…"

"You what."

"Told her to fight him. You how that dipshit—"

"Jackson!"

"—is always giving her a hard time. She should know how to defend herself."

"She's _seven years old_, Jack—"

"That doesn't mean she has to take any of his crap—"

"Oh my God…" Sherri sank into the nearest armchair, covering her eyes.

"Sugar, it's fine, don't worry about it—"

"Our youngest daughter is standing here, covered in some little boy's blood, and you're telling me not to worry about it." When Sherri said it in such a flat and dry tone, it really was hard not to laugh at the situation.

"She's hardly covered in it," he remarked offhandedly.

If looks could kill… He winced.

"Sorry."

"I'm serious."

"I know, but, Sherri, think about it: If Harley hadn't taken care of this herself, that kid would've never left her alone."

"Whatever happened to just _ignoring _him, Jack? Isn't that what you're always saying? That people only have as much power as you _give _them?"

Shit. Of all the things to come back and bite him in the ass…

"_Yes_," Jack admitted, "but that's only true to a certain extent. When things start to get physical, you can't act like they aren't happening."

Sherri quickly tried a new argument. "You know the Rileys will be furious."

"Listen, no guy is gonna tell anyone that he was beaten up by a girl," he assured her, winking at Harley, who grinned.

"You don't know that for sure," Sherri pointed out. "They could sue."

Slowly, he approached her and ran his hands up and down her arms.

"Then it' s a good thing you're a lawyer."

"That isn't the kind of case I handle and you know it," she murmured distractedly and sighed. "What about them?" A nod to the girls. "What are they going to think now? That if someone gives them trouble, they can just beat that person up?"

"Of course not," Jackson scoffed. "They know better than that, don't you, girls?"

"Yes, Daddy," Karen affirmed, and Harley nodded.

"Okay, then. See? No need to worry." He gave his wife a smile that was met with a glare.

But Sherri reluctantly slipped her arms around his neck, muttering so that only he could hear: "You're an asshole."

Jack simply grinned brightly and kissed her.

* * *

Writing little kids is not easy. Fun, but not easy. Also, I'm gonna rewrite Chapter VIII to include a scene with Harley in elementary school and one from her sister's POV since I just feel that it's sort of lacking the way it is now.

Notes

Sheryl Quinzel – I hope she didn't seem too over-the-top, since I get the feeling that she could be toned down a bit. But, anyway, Harley obviously gets her clingy nature from her mom, even though she's better at social interaction than Sherri is. Ironic because, despite being so affable, there aren't a lot of people that Harls is willing to get close to and yet her mom is kinda desperate to do just that. Meh, it'll all be explained sooner enough. Also, and this is something I didn't pick up on until I was editing the chapter but, in a lot of ways, Sherri seriously reminds me of Jonathan. Both are rather serious and logical with dry senses of humor (well, Jonny's is more like biting sarcasm), though Sherri's a bit more neurotic. Or at least, she isn't as good as hiding it as Jonathan is. And they both hate the idea of being rejected/abandoned by the people that they love, although Jonathan's learned to overcome those feelings by just not letting himself get emotionally attached to anyone. That's what he thinks, anyway. _And_ if Jack's supposed to be reflected in Harley, does that mean that his and Sherryl's relationship is sorta like what would happen if Harls and Jonny didn't go crazy, switched genders, and got hitched? Anyone? Okay, I'll stop. :P

Jackson Quinzel - there are two reasons why it's significant that Harley's father is named 'Jackson,' even though at first I simply thought that the name fit the character well. Then I realized that, in the comics, the Joker is rumored to have been called 'Jack Napier' before he lost his mind. 'Jack' can be short for 'Jackson,' which relates to the theory that I have about the Joker and Harley's father/daughter-like relationship, which is further explained in the second note. Although I don't know if I'll ever actually mention that the Joker's "real name" is Jack, since I kind of like the idea of Ledger's Joker having no name. That said, the name 'Jackson' is also important because one (of many) inspirations for my version of Harley was, strangely enough, Cillian Murphy's character Jackson Rippner from the film _Red Eye_. Like Jackson, pre-insanity Harley comes off as being rather pleasant and charming even though she's actually quite embittered toward most people. That, and despite not being a physically intimidating individual, she can effectively disarm and/or kill a man with a seemingly innocent, everyday object. Even though Harley's dad doesn't look like Mr. Murphy; I actually picture him looking like an older Joe Anderson (who is also very man-pretty), which is crazy since my Harley was also inspired by him—she's the pretty little blonde-haired, blue-eyed gymnast that smokes cigarettes (occasionally), rides a motorcycle, and is very friendly. So, in a way, she's like a corrupted, female version of Joe Anderson. In relation to that, Jack Quinzel's personality is based on Anderson's character Max Carrigan in _Across the Universe_, as well as Jackson Rippner (very slightly), the Joker (even _more _slightly), and my own father.

"those faggy French art films." – which is what my dad calls films like _Un chien andalou_, even though he's usually the one who rents them. :-P

…he liked 'Heather…' even less – this is a slight reference to the movie _Heathers_ for no reason other than it's one of my favorites. Although I do think that the dark comedy would appeal to Harley's sense of humor.

Harley…was clearly her father's daughter – I really want to emphasize how important the role of Harley's father is and how much he influenced her while she was growing up. It's difficult to explain without giving too much away, but in a weird way, this will have a lot to do with her relationship with Mr. J—even though her relationship with her father was not incestuous or anything like that, though I'll admit that I _had _considered the idea. My main inspiration for this was the way that, on top of the sex and violence, Harley and the Joker seem to have this almost father/daughter thing going on. He treats her like a child at times, he 'punishes' her for being 'bad,' and on occasion she even calls him 'Daddy'—even though that's a throwback to the 1920s slang that Mr. J seems to enjoy. Still. It made me think that, negative or positive, her father might have been an important figure in her life and somehow she relates that to Mr. J. Yeah, we're kinda leaning toward Electra Complex territory, here. Well, I guess it just complements Jonny's Oedipal tendencies…

"Touch Teddy's weenie."– little boys are perverts. At least, the American ones are. Or maybe it was just the boys in my first and second grade classes. It seemed like, every day, the teacher was calling a parent because some kid wouldn't stop touching himself. And people wonder why I'm scared of penises… Anyway, I went with this idea mainly because I thought that it was realistic and less cliché than the idea of Harley crying because Teddy stole her favorite doll or something similar. Oh, and again, this is one of those instances where I wish that FFN would let me make the font smaller, but alas, it was not meant to be.

…teaching Harley and Karen to…fight their own battles – the idea of Jackson having Harley settle the fight herself was actually inspired by Myra Hindley (most reviled woman in the UK, if you remember from "Lights Out") and her upbringing. Apparently, when she was eight, a boy in her neighborhood beat her up, and when she went crying to her (abusive) father, he responded by ordering her to go find the boy and kick his ass, saying that, if she didn't, he (her father) would take a belt to her. Nice guy. But forensic psychiatrists have speculated that this might help in understanding her behavior toward the murders that she committed, since being exposed to violence and encouraged to _act _violent at a young age can alter a person's reaction to it when they're adults.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone except Jackson, Sherri, and Karen. Though hopefully I have some friends who will buy the new Arkham Asylum game once it comes out, so I can watch them play and geek out like the non-gamming spaz that I am. But only if they bring Jonny back cuz, c'mon, they _have _to.


	5. The Good Doctor

**Chapter V**

_**The Good Doctor**_

Note: Okay, guys, I'd really like to know what you think about this one. Not that you haven't been giving me great feedback so far, it's just that this chapter took me a ridiculously long time to work out. It was like, I had the set up and knew what was going to happen in each individual scene, but the specifics were where I hit a snag, especially when it came to Harley and Jonathan's therapy sessions. It's taken since I first began writing this story to figure out exactly what I wanted them to do, and I'm still a little uncertain with how it turned out, but for the most part I'm pleased with it.

And be warned: Toward the end of this chapter, disturbing imagery is described.

Also, it might be better not to read this chapter all in one go. Somewhere during the third scene, I lost control of it and it grew to an incredible length. So, go easy on yourselves and please feel free to take breaks in between scenes.

* * *

"I'm aware that, by now, I should know better than to ask if you're nervous or not, but…are you nervous?" Pamela asked as she pulled her dark blue hybrid car into the parking lot of Arkham Asylum.

She blinked innocently at the redhead.

"Now, Pammy, why ever would I be nervous?"

Her friend sighed and turned off the ignition before running her hands through her hair, effectively mussing the thick, coppery strands.

"I know, I know, you're practically turned on by the thought of curing those lunatics," Pamela muttered, massaging her temples.

"Eh…not 'curing,' necessarily," she corrected, reaching over to smooth down the other woman's hair. If she hadn't, she doubted that Pammy would have done it herself, or even noticed her disheveled 'do. "I mean, if I can rehabilitate some people, sure. But thinking that I can cure the psychopathic murderers in the high security wing?" She rolled her eyes. "Come on. I'm not that much of an optimist. And we both know that those are the only people I get all hot 'n' bothered for."

"Mmm, and remind me again why that is?" Pamela's light green eyes looked tired.

"I, um…get bored easily." She shrugged. "You know that."

"Right, '_boredom_.'" The redhead sighed again, pulling her thermos of (homemade, not purchased) lemon and ginger tea from the cup holder and taking a sip. "So I take it you don't think that this 'Worm' guy is curable?"

"Breedlove?" she asked, then shook her head. "Going by his file, I'd say it's a big 'hell no,' but seeing as how I've yet to meet the guy, I don't think that that's really a fair judgment for me to make."

"And, one more time…" Pammy yawned, having never been a morning person. "…_why _is it you were assigned to this guy _weeks_ ago and yet you're just _now _having your first session with him?"

"Because when I first came here, three doctors had already failed to make any progress with Breedlove and Dr. Gooding didn't know what else to do, so he—"

"He gave him a bunch of happy fun-time sleepy pills," Pamela cut in.

"Barbiturates, yeah," she confirmed. "And, by the time I was hired, he'd already been on them for several weeks, which meant that he had to go through the lovely withdrawal process before I could get to him."

"Fun."

"_Oh_ yeah." She nodded, eyes glittering. "And then, after he was finally clean, the first thing he did was piss off that Bolton guy enough to get himself sent to the infirmary for another two weeks." Drawing a breath, she fixed Pammy with a steady gaze. "_That's _why I haven't met with Breedlove. Not because Dr. Gooding's a mean, old sexist pig, if that's what you're thinking."

"No, I'd say he's probably more of a sleaze ball who thinks that your eyes are located on your chest."

"And sometimes my ass," she put in, grinning.

"Harley…" Her friend sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"Red, I'm not gonna sleep with him," she assured her. "He's not my type—he's _bald_. And not in an attractive way, like Billy Zane or Sinéad O'Connor."

"Right, because physical appearance is what really counts," Pamela said dryly. "Listen, Harl, I know that'd you'd never…_do _anything with…someone like that, but it's just that…I don't know. Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're being serious or not—I mean…" She paused, thinking. "There are times when I'm not sure if you're aware of just how…dangerous…someone like that can be."

"Pammy…" she said in a warning tone. They had had this conversation before, and it had never ended well. Normally, she found amusement in the fact that everyone thought that she was so damn naïve, but not Red. Red should have known better.

"I'm just saying, Harley," the taller woman said firmly, "you need to be more careful. Some of the people you've dated have given off really weird vibes."

A short, humorless laugh.

"Heh. Not lately," she muttered, staring moodily out the window.

It was true: In the past she had brought home some rather…interesting individuals. That was what she called them; Pamela called them creepy. While in college, she had had a thing for musicians—angry, grungy punk rockers with a flair for dramatics. The problem with them was that they tended to be either too career-focused, making music only for money, or they weren't career-focused enough and only really cared about the big three: sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll.

Throughout med. school, she had progressed from musicians to a more 'intellectual' type. There had been the tall, handsome businessman with amazing fashion sense—a real sicko in the bedroom with an interest in murdering psychopaths that rivaled her own; unfortunately, his obsession with material possessions and overall vanity had gotten to be too much for her; plus, he had had shit taste in music, not to mention the fact that he had always ended their dates early by feeding her some line about having to return some videotapes.

After that, she had dated a rather charming young criminal lawyer, but she had slowly begun to realize that, for as powerful and commanding as he was in the court room, he had no mind of his own; he had wanted her to make all the decisions, wanted her to choose what movie they saw, where they ate dinner—it had gotten to the point where he hadn't been able to do anything without first hearing her opinion; she couldn't handle someone like that, not when she knew the importance of being able to think for oneself.

Then, for a while she had seen a shady, redheaded art dealer with a terribly negative outlook on life, but she had at least been a _funny _cynic, although Pamela hadn't been able to stand the girl; she had her suspicions as to why this was, but she knew better than to push her friend into making any sort of confession.

But as of late, she had hit something of a dry spell. Nobody that she dated was very interesting or adventurous, and none of them seemed to get her. Few shared her…enthusiasm in the bedroom, and even they thought that she was too…intense, for lack of a better word. And while Pamela seemed to sympathize, the redhead didn't put much effort into hiding her relief at the thought that she was no longer hooking up with 'all those sexual deviants.' Quite frankly, she didn't see why Pammy was so relieved, since it wasn't as if she wasn't still _looking_ for sexual deviants, even if she hadn't managed to hook up with any recently.

Besides that, it wasn't as if she told Pammy who to go out with, though she might have if the reclusive redhead ever actually went on a date. By nature, Pamela was not a romantic. She hated receiving attention of any kind, so much so that the redhead actually made an effort to remain unnoticed. She never wore anything that flattered her body, preferring clunky flats to heels and boxy blouses to tailored suits, thus hiding a voluptuous frame that would make any Victoria's Secret model jealous. As far as her hair went, Pammy never styled it, using her long, straight tresses to shield her face from view. Which was a shame, because the woman was a natural beauty—small and thin nose, full lips, exotic green eyes, and white, flawless skin—makeup would have only served to enhance her already lovely features.

She knew that, for the most part, Pammy had little to no interest in anyone, male or female. It didn't help that the few relationships that the woman had had in the past had all ended quite badly. Red had practically given up on the human race, seemingly content to live out the rest of her days locked up in a greenhouse, tending to the exotic flora and fauna that she had always had a passion for. She supposed that that was part of why Pammy had decided to become a botanist.

With a sigh, she cast a sideways glance at her friend.

"Is this about me being attacked by that guy?"

Pamela fiddled with the cuff of her dark green pea coat, not meeting her gaze.

"Kinda. Yeah, it is," she said with conviction, finally looking up.

"Red, that was how long ago?"

"Not that long—a couple of weeks, maybe." Pamela glared, clearly miffed that she wasn't taking this seriously enough. "I still can't believe you never reported it."

"What was there to report? The guy tried to assault me, I beat his face in with my shoes, and he ran away. It wasn't—okay, it _was _a big deal, but it's over now and nobody was hurt. Except for my assailant, but I know you don't feel bad for him. So what's wrong?"

"You mean aside from the fact that my best friend works with a bunch of psychopaths in a mental institution for the criminally _insane_ that just happens to be located in the _Narrows?_ Not a damn thing," Pammy murmured bitterly, taking another sip of tea. "Look, I've seen your library, Harl, I know how much these crazies intrigue you, but why couldn't you have taken a job somewhere else? The Rose Hill Sanatorium for Women was ready to hire you on the spot—and you _liked _interning there."

"I've spent enough time at Rose Hill," she stated darkly.

"I'm just saying," her friend continued, "It would be safer than working here."

"Safer and _boring_," she pointed out. "You know I can't do that, Red."

"Yeah…"

"I mean…you've known since we became friends that I've wanted to do this and that I can't get enough of these 'sickos,' as you so crudely call them."

Pamela smirked a little.

"Yeah… When most girls had posters of Ashton Kutcher and the Jonas Brothers on their bedroom walls, little Harley Quinzel had Ted Bundy and Charles Manson's mug shots."

"Oh, no, I had photos of the crime scenes," she corrected, keeping her expression deadly serious.

A beat.

Then Pammy rolled her eyes.

"You know…if you had said that to anyone else, they would've thrown you in this place," the redhead told her, gesturing to the cold, stone asylum.

"That's why you're such a great friend: I can trust you enough to know that you'll never have me committed," she said brightly.

"Even though sometimes I think I should," Pamela said with a wry twist of her pale, unpainted lips before her gaze flitted slightly to the left. Her russet eyebrows rose and she gave a small nod. "On the other hand, if _that's _who'd be treating you, I might ruin my status as a great friend if I _don't _have you committed."

Turning around, it didn't take her long to find who Pamela was looking at. There was only one other person in the parking lot, as no one, save for the guards, was at Arkham this early in the morning. In truth, she herself wasn't due to arrive for another two hours, but her Mercedes was in the shop awaiting its yearly inspection and so she had had to hitch a ride with Pammy, whose job at the Wayne Toxicology Research Center required her to show up for work bright and early.

One glance at the dark, lissome figure and she knew exactly who it was. Wearing a black wool trench coat with a crimson scarf wrapped around his neck, Dr. Crane strode toward the asylum's entrance, briefcase in hand.

"Oh, doctor, I have a _pain_," Pamela swooned mockingly from behind her.

"And here I didn't think that physical appearances mattered to you," she said, turning back around to shoot her friend a pointed look.

"What? I'm allowed to say when someone's attractive." Pammy shrugged. "It just doesn't mean I'm attracted _to _them."

"Well, I doubt that you'd go for him anyway," she informed the redhead. "That's Dr. Crane."

She watched with amusement as Pamela's green eyes widened and the other woman leaned over for a closer look at the doctor's retreating back.

"No shit, really?"

"Yep."

"Huh." Pammy leaned back in her seat, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Well, I guess that explains why you like him—he's cute and he's a jerk."

"Oh, and don't forget that he can't stand me," she reminded her, grabbing her handbag and opening her door. "That's the clincher."

"You just can't resist people who _can _resist you, can you, Harley?" Pamela cocked head to the side. "Did you ever think that there's a reason for their hatred?"

"Therein lies the attraction—I want to know what that reason is. Besides," she continued as she stepped outside, "if I didn't pursue people who hate me, you and I would never be friends."

"A fact that I regret every day of my life," the redhead muttered sardonically.

"Hey, if you want me to move out, you could just ask."

Pamela scoffed.

"Like you could afford your own place."

"Um…yes?"

The redhead scowled, lapsing into silence as she searched for an appropriate response.

"I…you know what? Screw you."

"I love you, Pammy," she replied with saccharine sweetness.

"Yeah, sure you do," her friend scoffed, starting up the car again. "Call me when you get off work—and _don't _hang around outside this place waiting for me to pick you up."

"Yes, Mommy."

Smirking at the disgusted look on Pamela's face, she raised one hand and waved pleasantly as her friend drove away.

At the parking lot's exit, the redhead stuck her arm out the window and flipped her off.

* * *

He was walking through the maximum-security ward, flipping through the file of a patient—a young man named Daniel Wallace—when he overheard two of the guards talking.

"How long y'think she'll last?" asked Mark Tess.

"With Breedlove?" Lyle Bolton snorted. "Ten minutes, at the most."

"Aw, c'mon—that's all? Give 'er a little more credit than that."

"I _know _you've seen the woman, Tess. You're telling me that little pixie-lookin' thing is gonna survive an _hour _with one of Gotham's most notorious serial killers?"

"Y'think Dr. Gooding would've stuck 'er with the Worm if she couldn't handle it?"

The bigger man's thin lips pulled back into a sneer as he scoffed.

"I think Dr. Gooding's stuck it to 'er, if y'know what I mean."

"Nah, get real, man…"

"All I'm sayin' is, y'don't get lips like that suckin' doorknobs."

At the sound of Tess's lewd, obnoxious chuckle, he bristled, feeling strangely annoyed. True, he didn't like Dr. Quinzel (and that was obviously who they were speaking of), but based on what he had gathered from their conversations over the past few weeks, he highly doubted that the girl had any kind of relationship with Dr. Gooding beyond that of employer and employee. He was not so childish that he would never admit that that raised his opinion of her—not a lot, of course, but a little.

It was for this reason that he felt the need to put an end to the guards' conversation. It was one thing to listen to that perverted moron Tess make poorly concealed innuendoes about just what he would like to do to Dr. Quinzel if he ever got her in bed (as if that would ever happen; the girl most likely preferred the pseudo intellectual type). But it was another thing entirely to hear Bolton spreading unfounded rumors about her. If the stories were true, then he might have had a different opinion, but since they were false, he decided to intervene. There was little point in gossip, but even less of a point if the gossip had no basis of fact.

"Mr. Bolton," he said sharply, turning to face the much taller, much stronger man.

Tess straightened at once, though, despite his comments, Bolton had never lost much of his composure and so he merely squared his broad shoulders and glared down at him.

"Need something, doc?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," he replied, easily meeting the guard's scowl with cool intensity. He had long since stopped being intimidated by hulking, brutish men such as Lyle Bolton. People like that were idiots who could never truly appreciate fear, merely fed on it, and when met with someone who showed none, they often did not know how to react. "When you're done restraining Mr. Breedlove, I'll require your assistance in room 304. And, if you would, bring a straightjacket."

Realization hitting him, Bolton nodded curtly.

"Sure thing."

He had known that the man would agree even before he had asked the question. Bolton was one of the most law-abiding, rule-enforcing people that he had ever met. And somehow, he was also the most corrupt. Of course, Bolton's skewed logic didn't allow him to see it as corruption, rather, he thought of it as a form of justice. By beating patients black and blue, bloodying noses, sometimes even causing bones to shatter, the guard thought that he was doing the world a service by 'getting back' at the inmates for all of the crimes that they had committed. And because either such force was necessary or the doctors simply didn't care, Bolton was able to get away with it.

Which meant that _he _could rely on Bolton not to tell anyone about the experiments that he conducted on his patients. In the past, the guard had proven to be immensely helpful when it came to restraining those who had had rather violent reactions to his compound, not to mention the fact that Bolton was always willing to 'escort' patients down to the cells found in the lower levels of Arkham whenever he was working late and did not wish to be disturbed. What he did was wrong, he knew that, but Bolton thought that it was right. Really, he would have been mad not to have taken advantage of an opportunity like that.

His gaze lingered just long enough for Bolton to grow uncomfortable before he turned and continued down the hallway.

"Hey, doc!" Tess called after him.

He kept walking, not even bothering to look back as he made his reply.

"Yes?"

"How long d'you think Quinzel will last?"

He stopped dead. Then, slowly, he turned around.

"With Mr. Breedlove, I assume?"

Tess nodded in confirmation.

"That's the one."

He shook his head.

"Mr. Tess, you do know that gambling is an incredibly _base_ hobby?"

"Aw, c'mon, doc. S'not like we're actually bettin' anything. We're just makin' guesses."

"Well, if that's the case…"

Bolton grunted, that ugly sneer back on his face.

"I'm sure you've put some thought into it, Dr. Crane. How long d'you think it'll be before the Worm breaks 'er?"

He paused for a moment, considering. Just because she wasn't sleeping with Gooding didn't mean that Dr. Quinzel was any more qualified to handle Allan Breedlove.

"I'd give her five minutes," he said with finality before heading off to prepare for his next appointment.

* * *

"Mr. Bolton, didn't I ask you to prep Mr. Breedlove before I arrived?"

Her tone was frosty—not at all, she was certain, like the bright, pleasant voice that everyone was accustomed to hearing.

Lyle Bolton glanced into the cell behind them.

"Yeah. I did. What's your point?"

She pursed her lips. Here was another one who didn't seem to like her, although she wasn't drawn to the guard like she was with Dr. Crane. And unlike the adorably uptight psychologist, Bolton had made it clear why he detested her. She knew from experience that, as a woman, most people expected her to be sympathetic toward her patients. And she knew from seeing the way Bolton treated the inmates of Arkham Asylum that he would undoubtedly resent anyone who might show them the slightest amount of mercy.

"I asked you not to restrain him," she continued, her voice neutral, though it hinted at impending aggression if the guard failed to cooperate. "So why is he wearing a straightjacket?"

"With all due respect, _Dr. Quinzel_," Bolton sneered, "the Worm has been known to be violent—"

"We did it for your own safety, ma'am," Mark Tess cut in, looking nervous and apologetic.

"Exactly," Bolton said, though he glared at Tess for interrupting. "We don't want you t'get hurt."

Smiling a little as she bit her lower lip, she replied, "Ah-m, I…really appreciate that, guys, I do, but…I won't be able to help my patients unless they're comfortable. They need to trust me, and putting them in a straightjacket isn't exactly the best way to go about earning that trust."

It was the way she always approached a new patient, focusing on trust, comfort, honesty. She never demanded anything of them, but let them talk about whatever they wanted. After a while, the patient usually felt so at ease that they didn't even realize that they were talking about their past, their feelings, their secrets... It was something that she had been good at ever since she could remember—getting people to open up about themselves while at the same time, never revealing anything about herself. Of course, that didn't always work, and if that was the case, then she moved on to more unorthodox methods. Each patient was different, and only time would tell if and when she needed to try a less friendly procedure.

Bolton didn't even bother to hide his grimace, thus confirming her suspicions about his hatred for showing criminals any sympathy. And if that didn't do it, then his next words certainly did.

"_Trust?_" he spat. "You're tryin' t'earn that scumbag's _trust?_ And you want him to be _comfortable?_ After what he's done, a freak like that doesn't deserve comfort—none of these psychotic bastards do."

She held his gaze, taking a steadying breath.

_Do not pull rank. Do not pull rank._

She could handle this without sounding like an arrogant bitch by pointing out the fact that she was a trained psychiatrist while Bolton was a prison guard, not a real cop, who didn't even get to carry a gun.

"Mr. Bolton," she began, keeping her voice low, "I am here to study the patients of this asylum—not get cozy with them. But since offering trust and comfort has worked so well for me in the past, I am going to continue to do so while I'm here. If it fails, I have a backup plan. And if that doesn't work, I can always call you." She smiled sweetly. "Now, please, remove Mr. Breedlove's restraints? I've already wasted ten minutes of our session."

Bolton continued to glare, almost looking as if he hadn't even heard her, but then Tess spoke up.

"I'll take care of him, Dr. Quinzel."

"No," Bolton growled suddenly, turning his menacing gaze to the other guard. "I got this."

There was the ominous _clank slam clank slam clank_ _slam _that echoed throughout the hallway as the three heavy lock bolts slid back, granting access to Allan Breedlove's cell. Without so much as a backward glance, Bolton strode inside as Tess readied his tranquilizer gun just in case.

"You're sure you wanna do this?" he whispered, looking genuinely afraid for her. And to think, she'd heard from Dr. Adams that the guards were taking bets on how long she would last with Allan Breedlove.

"Mr. Tess," she said sharply, her eyes flashing a warning. "I'll be fine."

The man actually looked a little taken aback at her icy demeanor, quickly focusing his gaze on Bolton who was emerging from the cell and gesturing toward it grandly.

"He's all yours."

She nodded to him once and then headed inside.

_Clank slam clank slam clank slam!_

Her excitement had been building since the other day when Dr. Gooding had informed her that she could finally begin her sessions with Breedlove, and now that she was face to face with the man, locked inside a room with him, her excitement had reached its peak.

It took everything she had not to smile right then and there.

Pulling out a pen and notebook, she took a seat at the bolted-down steel table that sat in the center of the room and cleared her throat.

"Hello, Mr. Breedlove. I'm Dr. Quinzel."

Far off in the corner, he had yet to look at her. Instead he lay on his cot, spindly arms folded behind his head as he stared at the ceiling, chewing on his lower lip.

"Not 'the _Worm_,' dearie? It's what everyone _else _calls me."

His voice had a thin, reedy edge to it that made him sound older than the thirty-two years she knew him to be.

"I don't know about you, but I prefer 'Mr. Breedlove' to 'the Worm.'"

"Why's that, sweetheart?" he queried, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "Don't you like worms? Do you find them _icky?_ Slimy? Disgusting?"

"No, I just think that 'the Worm' is a rather embarrassing nickname and that anyone would prefer their given name over that."

"I never called myself that, you know," he informed her. "The people here—_they _were the ones that started it. All your doctor friends. I much prefer the title that the media gave me."

He paused, as if waiting for her to say it for him. She didn't. He cleared his throat.

"'The Butcher of Harper Alley,'" he finally supplied.

She nodded, feigning recognition, though she already knew that the now-infamous street (located in the ritzy section of Gotham) was not only where Breedlove had always left his victims, but also where the man had grown up.

"I can see the appeal."

"_Much _better than 'the _Worm_.'" He spat out the last word as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth. "Much more fitting. Although…I suppose I am like a worm, in a way." He grinned to himself. "I like to worm my way _in_to things, I like to burrow in_side_ of people. Do you understand what I'm saying, love?"

"No, actually. Would you care to elaborate?" she replied, clicking her pen.

He twitched at the sound, looking momentarily dazed. Then, slowly sitting up, he turned to face her.

Thin, sandy blond hair hung limp and stringy around his shoulders, the roots appearing darker from a buildup of grease. Long and unkempt, it partially obscured his face, but she could still make out most of his features. Sallow-skinned, hollow-cheeked, and snub-nosed with a chapped, pouty mouth, the lower lip wet and shining from when he had sucked on it. And then there were his eyes. His mug shots really hadn't captured the full effect, but looking into them now, she could see how others might find them frightening. They were the eeriest shade of silvery gray, so pale they were almost white. He stared at her, saying nothing, his eyes boring into her own. Yet his attempt at intimidation was wasted; she had dealt with men far more frightening than him.

Upon realizing that she was not about to look away, Breedlove cleared his throat again.

"You know, pet, most people don't like it when I describe my work. It makes them un_com_fortable."

She shrugged, busy writing down notes, the first sheet of paper already half filled.

"I don't mind."

He cocked his head at her.

"And most people don't like it when I call them by charming little soubriquets."

She tilted her head to the side in an imitation of him.

"Again, I don't mind."

Taking his lower lip in his mouth, he squinted, studying her for a moment before speaking again.

"Shouldn't you discourage me from such behavior?"

"It's advised, but there's no written rule stating that I should."

"Ah." He arched his eyebrows, nodding slightly before flashing her a pleasant smile. "In that case, where should I begin...?"

"How you 'worm' your way into people," she suggested, glancing at her notes. "Is that what you call your 'work?'"

"No," he replied, leaning his head back against the wall. "Worming is a way of life, whereas burrowing is more of a hobby. And my _work_…" He coughed a little. "…is the finished product. You see?"

"Yes." She clicked her pen—his nostrils flared—and wrote something down, smirking internally.

_Click, click_.

He had very long lashes for a man and she watched them flutter as he blinked in momentary confusion.

"What was I talking about…?" It was subtle, but for a moment his voice lost its oily charm.

"Um, your 'work,'" she supplied, half tempted to click the pen again. But if she wanted any information, she needed to keep him on track. In addition to her distractions, so far, Breedlove had avoided going into the actual details of his crimes. Interesting. She wrote that down.

"Your list of murders is quite extensive," she remarked. "I was wondering, do you have a favorite?"

"Oh," he mused, appearing to have collected himself, "there are so many… It's difficult to choose… But…yes, I suppose I _do_."

"Would you mind telling me about it?"

He hummed a little, smiling slightly at the memory.

"Sally…Jenkins…" he sighed, a dreamy look coming over his gaunt face, and in that second she noticed that he would have been a rather attractive man, were it not for the hardened, predatory edge that seemed to cling to everything about him. Not just his face and body, but in his voice and movements as well, like he was some kind of feral animal, though she knew from reading his file that he had come from rather privileged household in an upscale neighborhood.

"What was so special about her?" she asked, though she thought that she already knew the answer. Lust killers like Breedlove often kept 'trophies' from their victims; when he had finally been arrested, the police had reported opening the man's refrigerator and finding a human foot in a pickling jar. It was later identified as having belonged to the late Sally Jenkins, a woman whose mutilated corpse had been found in Harper Alley nearly four months earlier. Several of the other twenty-three women that Breedlove had killed had been missing body parts as well (often feet, sometimes breasts, and their genitalia had always been hacked to ribbons), but it appeared that Sally's foot was the only thing that he had ever bothered to keep.

"Mr. Breedlove?"

He had been silent for a while, looking caught up in his own memories.

"Mr. Breedlove," she tried again, feeling a little agitated. This was eating away at their session time, and while she felt as if she'd made more progress than her predecessors, she would have liked to have gained a little more information. Besides, instinct told her that she was on the brink of something, if she simply waited a bit longer.

Eyes on her patient, she clicked her pen.

He winced again, this time more visibly than before. She moved to make a note of this and, with Sally Jenkin's severed foot in mind, crossed one leg over the other.

The movement snared Breedlove's attention, his silvery gaze fixated on her pale, dainty foot encased in a pair of square-toed, kitten heels made out of fine black, white, and gray plaid fabric.

"Oh, I followed her for a _while_…" he murmured. "She worked in a shoe store, and she had such lovely feet."

"What about the other women?" she asked. "Weren't their feet nice?"

Despite what she had told Bolton, she had doubted that Breedlove would trust her ever since reading the man's file.

_Definitely the organized, nonsocial type_. Which meant that, although this type of criminal almost always murdered to exact 'revenge' on society and cause an uproar, they were often quite paranoid (they wanted the corpses to be found, as long as it was under _their _control). Therefore, it was unlikely that she would be able to win his trust.

_But then, why is he seeking revenge and why does he have a foot fetish?_

Breedlove was slowly shaking his head, eyes still on her shoe.

"Yes, some of them, but not like hers. Who made those?" he inquired suddenly, gaze not leaving her foot.

"Christian Louboutin," she answered. "You're familiar with the designer?"

"Mmm…very nice… but I prefer Versace. Not like my mother; she always shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue."

"Did she ever take you shopping with her?" She avoided adding 'when you were a child' to the end of her question. In her experience, she had found that making direct inquiries about a patient's childhood was often the best way to ignite their tempers and get them to close up.

At once, his face lost all traces of that dreamy softness, hardening with contempt as he glared daggers at her footwear.

"_No_…" he whispered, thin voice now rough with barely-controlled fury. "No she didn't."

"Why was that?" she asked casually, though her mind was buzzing with intrigue.

His eyes snapped up to her so quickly that she almost jumped.

"Tell me, _dear_, did your _father _ever take you with him when he went out to do _masculine _things? Play golf? Look at cars? Buy tools?"

A new look had come over him, this one more raw and savage than before. For a second, she worried that she had pushed him too far, but all anxiety vanished when she remembered that that was exactly what she had been hoping to do.

"No," she said simply. "He didn't."

He smirked.

"So you will understand why I never accompanied my mother on her outings."

"No, actually. My father never took me with him because he never did those sort of things."

His smirk thinned into a hard, angry line. She clicked her pen, watching him cringe.

"Did your mother ever take you anywhere in public?"

"No," he hissed, a tic going under his left eye. He was staring at her feet again, fingers gripping the edge of his cot, tearing at the fabric.

"Why was that?" she pressed. "Why didn't your mother ever take you anywhere?"

When he didn't answer, she ventured further.

"Did you act up in public? Were you an out-of-control, disobedient child? Or did she think that you were an embarrassment? A mistake? Was that it? Was she ashamed to be seen with you?"

"Wealthy socialites such as my parents don't make _mistakes_," he snarled. "And if they do, they can always pay to have them 'disappear.' No, I was _not_ a mis_take_."

"But you weren't what they wanted," she continued, thrilled to have gotten a rise out of him. "You couldn't live up to their expectations, could you?"

He was on his feet, pacing angrily, eyes flicking back and forth between her face and her feet.

"Unlike you," he accused, venom practically dripping from his words. "Sweet, beautiful thing that you are, I'm sure that you were everything your father could ask for in a child."

"He got more than he asked for when I was born, Mr. Breedlove," she replied, clicking her pen as she hurriedly scribbled down notes.

His breath was becoming uneven and his words came more rapidly.

"No, that's probably true. Sweet, soft, pretty little girl—you _were_ more than enough for him, weren't you?"

Not looking at him, she pretended to hit a snag in her writing, and paused to click her pen again. And again. And again.

He twitched violently.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?" She blinked up at him, still clicking the pen.

"_That_," he seethed, pale eyes flashing a warning threat.

"Why?" she asked, lowering the pen but keeping it silent. "Does it bother you?"

"_Yes! He _used to—whenever he grew impatient, waiting for her to leave—aha, no. No, no, we weren't talking about _him_—we were discussing _your _father. Yes—your _relationship_ with your _father_." He let out a strange little giggle.

"Your father's _favorite_," he continued. "Always so willing, so eager to please—you did whatever he asked because you didn't want to make him mad. Poor pet, you feared loosing his _affection_, so whatever Daddy wanted, Daddy got—no matter how devious his requests were."

"What?" she asked, feigning confusion and alarm. True or not, such accusations would have perturbed, maybe even enraged other doctors, but she knew them to be false and ultimately, that was what mattered. But it _was _interesting that Breedlove would come up with such things—and to say it all with that much conviction and vigor… Fascinated, she let him continue.

"No matter how filthy and vile and wicked and _painful_—you loved your daddy dearly and you wanted him to be _happy_—yes… You were Daddy's plaything, Daddy's precious, pretty, little _play_thing. His little windup doll... His pretty _baby _doll—the little girl he always wanted."

A long, heavy silence. Then—

"Yes," she finally admitted, ideas forming rapidly. "I-I wasn't perfect, but I tried to be."

"That's right," he encouraged, eyes shinning. He stopped pacing to watch her.

"He always wanted the perfect little _girl_…" She drew a shuddering breath. "I thought that, if I did whatever he asked—let him do whatever he wanted…I could be that, I really could."

"Yes, my d—"

"And I let him," she gasped. "I let him, I let him do those awful things—"

"_Aw_ful, weren't they? Awful, awful—"

"He told me that all good little girls listened to their daddies an-and didn't ask questions," she rambled on, acting like she hadn't heard him, all the while mentally piecing everything together.

_Rich playboy by day, lust murderer by night—with a shoe fetish… Rapes, tortures, and kills older women in their forties and fifties, hacks off their feet and leaves their bodies in Harper Alley for the police to find… That was where he grew up, his mother was ashamed of him, avoids talking about his father—connection between father and clicking?—brings up father/daughter relationship… That can't just be something he threw out there on a whim. Maybe initially, but now he's getting too worked up for that…_

"He said that they always did what they were told…"

As she continued to babble, she studied her patient more closely. Even now, with his haggard, skeletal form and that deranged, raptorial look burning brightly in his unnatural gaze, she could see that he had once been a handsome man—no, not handsome, she realized suddenly as she took a closer look. That long blond hair, those high cheekbones, upturned nose, full lips, and long lashes that framed such bizarre yet captivating eyes… No, he was more pretty than handsome.

An idea struck her. It was a long shot, but she had come up with far stranger theories in the past and many of those had turned out to be accurate. Besides, going out on a limb had served her well so far.

_Aim, and…fire._

"He liked to play with my hair," she confessed. "He said it was so soft and fine—just like a girl's should be… My parents always wanted a daughter...someone for Mother to dress up…and someone for Daddy to—" she swallowed "—to play with. Mother dressed me like a girl, with the pretty pink dresses and white knee socks and ribbons in my hair and, and…lacey, white panties… Those were Daddy's favorite kind…"

Breedlove still had that haunted look about him, but he stopped pacing, sucking on his lower lip again.

"Daddy said that they were what a girl _should _wear…"

"Yes." She nodded vigorously. "He said that since I looked so much like a girl, I should dress like one. It was the best we could do for Mother, since she wanted a girl so badly and instead all she had was me…"

He was biting his lip hard, now.

"I didn't like it at first," she confessed, "but I started to, after a while…"

"No, no, didn't—_didn't_ like it—never liked it…" He coughed and wound his arms around himself, starting to pace again.

"Even though, sometimes, I was too tired to play. But Mother would always wake me up and put me in a frilly, pink dress, and then she would go out shopping and leave me with Daddy."

"Never went with her, fucking whore…" His piercing eyes glared murderously at her shoes as his breathing grew more labored.

"And Daddy always wanted to play—it didn't matter what I said, or that I screamed and cried and begged him not to—"

She clicked her pen. His arm spasmed.

"Stop—"

_Click._

"He would slap me and hold me down and say that good girls did what they were told—"

"S-sto-_op_—"

_Click._

"Pretty, girly little thing can't make Mother happy, but Daddy doesn't mind—"

"Shut up—"

"Daddy's happy to play with his pretty little girl, Daddy wants to bend her over and lift up her dress and rip off her lacey, white panties, grip her long, golden hair as he slams himself into her again and again every time her fucking whore of a mother goes out shopping to fill her closet with more of those beautiful, Goddamn shoes—"

_SMACK!_

The next thing she knew, her head was jerked to the side by a vicious slap. Her glasses flew off and skittered across the floor, but she barely noticed. Breedlove was hovering over her, slender arms braced against the back of the chair, caging her in, his ragged breath hot as it blew in her face. His hand shot out and he snatched up her pen, long, boney fingers wound tightly as he held it, poised to stab, over her left eye.

"You're going to _scream _for me, pet—"

"No, Mr. Breedlove, I don't think I'll be doing that," she replied, her voice perfectly calm. Though her hands were free, she kept them folded in her lap, just as relaxed as the rest of her body. Silently, she thanked Red for talking her into taking yoga classes, otherwise she doubted that she would have been able to contain herself, now. Like with her attacker at the 7/11, it wasn't as if she was afraid of Breedlove; rather, she was furious with him for what he had done and what he was about to do. This time, however, she knew that she needed to keep her rage in check. Their session was almost over and she still had some information to pry.

"You're angry at your mother, aren't you?" she asked him quietly. "She wanted a daughter, but had a son instead. And even though she dressed you in girls' clothing, it wasn't the same. She was still disappointed and had no desire to spend any time with you. So she whenever she went out, she would leave you behind. With your father." Her gaze was unwavering. "He was the real monster, but you hate your mother the most because she was the one who left you alone with him. That's why you went after all of those older women—mothers, like Sally Jenkins. You want revenge on your own mother and you wanted to send a message."

"And what was my message, dear heart?" he snarled, voice barely more than a breathless, guttural rasp.

"Don't neglect your children, love them for who they are—a twisted admirable thought like that, though I think that you were mainly motivated by revenge."

He sucked on his lower lip and panted, clearly debating his next move.

"Mmm, so clever, aren't you…" he muttered under his breath, ghosting his fingers along the side of her neck. "What about the _shoes_, precious? Why does seeing a woman in a pair of six-inch, red stilettos make me want to grab her, chop her up, and then cum all over her severed feet? Hm? What is it about them that makes me _hard?_"

"Well," she began carefully, "from what I can tell, you seem to house both a deep love and an intense hatred for them. You desire shoes because you see their beauty and the way that they enhance the shape of a woman's leg. I think that you also believe that there is a secret trick to them that makes them so alluring, which would explain why your mother seemed to value her footwear over her son. And, for this same reason, you despise them. They taunt you with their mysterious appeal, and you'll never know why your mother preferred them to you."

"Mother _fucking_ shoes…" he growled viciously, seizing her throat. She hoped that he didn't notice the wild fluttering of her pulse (she was so excited!). He looked at her sharply. "Where _is _your father, darling?"

She answered him honestly.

"Dead."

He bit his lip.

"And your mother?"

"She's alive."

"But she doesn't like you, does she? She doesn't like that her baby girl goes off to play with Gotham's sickos every day."

"At least she doesn't think I'm worthless."

Letting out a strange, mirthful chuckle, he tipped his head back, pressing himself against her.

"Pet…do you _know_ the things that I've done?" He cleared his throat, eyes watering a little. "Surely it says so in my little file, there. You must know _all _about what a bad man I am. All those poor women—like Margaret Henderson, for example. I clubbed her on the back of the head, dragged her back to my place, put her in one of my mother's evening gowns, and tied her up. Then, when she regained consciousness, I slit her open and fucked her intestines. Sound like fun?"

She didn't answer, trying to picture what Breedlove had just described and having a difficult time of it, getting caught up in thinking about how awkward it must have been. It was gruesome, yes, but she had heard worse. Besides, hearing could never compare to actually _seeing_.

"Or what about Vera Dalebrooke?" he went on. "While she was still alive, I took a pair of hooks and pierced the flesh of her back and hung her from the ceiling. At first, I tried to hang her from her nipples, but it didn't quite work. They couldn't support her weight." He smiled maliciously. "The hooks ripped through."

She blinked up at him, unfazed. He either didn't notice, or pretended not to, giving another small cough.

"And then, there was Sally Jenkins." He sighed, a faraway look briefly clouding his luminous eyes. "She really was my favorite… I kept her around for several days, even took a few pictures of her… And it's very simple why I did—I already told you: She had _lovely_ feet."

As he shifted against her, she could feel his erection begin to strain against his asylum-issued, red jumpsuit. Still, she kept her eyes on him, taking deep, calming breaths.

"I kept her around even after she was dead—put her in this small meat locker that I had had installed in my basement. You see, not only did I want to _preserve _her—I wanted to freeze her so that I could put her in all of the app_ro_priate po_si_tions whenever I wanted her."

He ran his tongue over his teeth, staring down at her.

"And now _you_. Admittedly, you're quite a bit young for my tastes, but, when locked up in a madhouse, I suppose beggars can't be choosers. Don't you agree, darling?"

He leaned in so that his wet, shining lips were less than an inch away from her ear.

"Are you scared?"

Drawing in a low breath to steady herself, she turned her head to whisper in his ear:

"No."

Breedlove's eye twitched. With a deranged howl, he pulled her up by her throat in one fluid movement and pressed the pen against her jugular.

"I will _make _you scream—"

"No, you won't," she told him calmly.

"_Yes! _Just like all the rest!" he ranted, eyes glittering manically. "_Scream _for me, damn you! _Scream!_" The pen clattered to the floor as he took her throat in both hands, shaking her violently. "Why won't you _scream!?_"

She said nothing.

Enraged, he dug his fingernails into her shoulders and flung her away. She tripped, nearly crashing to the floor but catching herself just in time. Bracing herself against the table, she watched Breedlove's as the raving man gnashed his teeth and let loose a string of muttered epithets, all the while pacing back and forth uncertainly, his ragged pants sounding quietly.

"You don't like it when things don't go your way, do you?" she asked him quietly, eyeing the nearly hysterical man as he stumbled back to his cot. "You don't know what to do. You're so determined to be in control."

Breedlove sank to the floor, one hand holding on to the cot for support as his breath came in short, painful bursts. He weakly shook his head at her, relentless.

"Mr. Breedlove, the first step to overcoming a problem is admitting that you have one in the first place. And I definitely think that your control issues are something we need to work on."

Face ashen and gleaming with sweat, the man clutched his heaving chest, fighting to regain control of his breathing. His eyes were popping as they rolled in his skull.

"I'd say that what you're employing is a typical level three defense mechanism—it's called displacement. You're angry with your parents, yet you're taking that anger out on 'safer' targets, such as innocent women that you feel resemble your mother."

She paused, eyes narrowing with curiosity when he didn't snap that his victims had hardly been innocent.

_Is he an asthmatic?_ Reaching out to pick up his file, she scanned it briefly before glancing back up at Breedlove. _Oh… Guess he is._

How that little fact had slipped her mind, she wasn't quite sure. Maybe she had dismissed it earlier because the file claimed that Breedlove hadn't had any trouble since his early teens. Still, it was too bad that this had to happen. Just when she thought that she was really starting to get somewhere with him.

Sighing slightly, she checked her watch.

Well, she supposed that it was for the best. As it was, their session was almost over, anyway.

"Unfortunately, our time is just about up," she informed the trembling, wheezing man, bending over to retrieve her scattered notes, pen, and glasses. "But, it just give us something to focus on during our next session."

She smiled faintly, adjusting her frames.

"Until then, I think that you would do well to think about what I said. I'd hate to have to go through this entire process again."

Breedlove stared up at her, still gasping. Her lips quirked again.

"I'll see you on Friday, Mr. Breedlove."

_Clank slam clank slam clank slam! _as the door was unlocked and opened.

She stepped outside and was greeted by Mark Tess and Lyle Bolton's stunned faces.

"Could one of you call the infirmary?" she requested. "And please make sure that Mr. Breedlove is given a bronchodilator before he suffocates? Oh, and um…he's had a lot of excitement today, so I'm thinking that it actually might not hurt if they gave him a mild sedative, too. _Mild _sedative. _Mild_."

"Uh…yes, ma'am. Sure thing," Tess mumbled, fumbling with his phone.

"Thanks."

Bolton smirked a little, arching an eyebrow at her.

"You call that therapy." It was more of a statement than a question, and his tone contained both sarcasm and skepticism.

She looked up at him, her expression serious.

"Well…if it's effective, then yes. After all, Mr. Bolton, I'm here to help."

* * *

At age eighteen, Daniel Wallace was one of Arkham's youngest patients. As far as anyone could tell, he had no seriously debilitating mental illnesses aside from the occasional, mild panic attack and a long history of antisocial tendencies. And yet, here he was, locked away in a sanatorium for the criminally insane.

Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that, just over a month ago, The boy had taken a gun to his school, pulled it out during lunch, then shot and killed several of his fellow students, after which the boy proceeded to go on a horrifying rampage throughout the building, taking down nearly everyone in his path until a the police had finally been able to detain him.

Despite his family's financial woes, a good lawyer and a lot of luck had been able to buy Wallace a trip to the loony bin rather than a ticket to the state penitentiary. However, although it was clear that he was a bit off, many of the psychiatrists at Arkham were of the opinion that the boy was, for the most part, of sound mind.

And, for once, he agreed with them. Today marked his third session with Wallace, yet he had known since their first meeting that the boy was relatively sane. More importantly, he had quickly been able to see what his young patient's greatest fear was. Quite simply, Daniel Wallace was afraid of losing the spotlight, not to mention his sanity.

Oh, to be sure, the boy preferred a padded room to a prison cell, but that didn't mean that he was any good at playing the part of a lunatic. Really, it was an insult to his intelligence to have to listen to some kid prattle on about hearing voices and having inexplicable mood swings, and that was only if Wallace felt up to putting on a show, which was usually only when the cops and lawyers were around. Whenever Wallace was around _him_, however, much of the time, the boy would slip up and 'break character,' so to speak, usually whenever an insult was hurled his way.

Quite frankly, he was sick of it.

At one point, he would have held off on using Wallace in any of his experiments. It was clear that the boy had been the victim of bullying, rejection, and isolation—not unlike what he himself had suffered as a child.

_Save for the fact that Wallace comes from a loving family_, he noted bitterly.

But still, all resentment aside, normally he wouldn't have bothered to twist Wallace's mind and use his fears against him. The boy was an outcast, a loner, someone with very few (if any) friends who was had been the victim of constant name-calling, childish pranks, and regular beatings since kindergarten. All things considered, he really should have empathized with Wallace. Although it really wasn't due to any sort of empathy that the boy had been spared thus far. Rather it was because he felt it beneath him to use someone who was picked on for being small and weak as a test subject. That would have made him a hypocrite, no better than the bullies who had tormented him. But the fact of the matter was that Wallace was a whiny, attention-starved brat who, while not _un_intelligent, had absolutely no desire to expand his mind. That was intolerable. Even Dr. Quinzel claimed to want to learn as much as she could.

Besides that, it was difficult to feel any sympathy or respect for a person when they had allowed themselves to be broken so easily. Didn't Wallace realize that by going on a killing spree he had let his tormenters win? That everyone now knew that a bunch of vacuous, ignorant jocks had gotten under his skin and pushed him over the edge using only petty insults and their fists? The latter hurt, but the mind could overcome the former. It was remarkable, what the mind could do. Wallace had failed to see that. And that…that was what vexed him the most. Before their sessions began, he had met with the boy's parents, seen how concerned they were for their son, how much they truly cared about his well being…and it had confounded him. He, himself, had had _nothing_ but he had risen above those who wanted to hurt him, yet Wallace…he at least had the love and support of his parents, who were still standing by him, even after what he had done.

As a child, that was what he had wanted more than anything else. Over the years, he had grown out of it, and now, as an adult, he knew better than to have such foolish desires. Things like love, friendship, affection—they only clouded the mind and got in the way of what really mattered: his research, his career, his intellect. Really, he was better off without them. Though that didn't change the fact that Wallace's constant complaints about having nothing and no one made his blood boil.

And so it was that he felt very little remorse when he arrived at room 304 and found Lyle Bolton waiting outside (just as he had ordered), straightjacket in hand. The guard watched his approach, smirking grimly.

"You lost, doc. We all did."

He blinked, frowning in confusion.

"What?"

"Quinzel. She lasted the whole damn session. Really did a number on that bastard, too, from what I could tell. I only just got back from haulin' him to the infirmary."

He arched his eyebrows in disbelief—and he really didn't believe this.

"The infirmary, really. What did she do to him, exactly?"

"From the looks of things, she sent him into some kinda panic attack or something. He was clutchin' his chest and havin' a hell of a time breathin'—almost sounded like he was choking. But Dr. Quinzel just said to get him a defibrillator—"

"A _what?_" That naïve little girl had sent the notorious Allan Breedlove into cardiac arrest? Unable to even conceive such a ridiculous notion, he tried to come up with a rational explanation for what the guard had seen.

"Bolton, that's ridiculous. Were you paying any attention to what she said?"

The guard scowled, clearly offended.

"That's what it _sounded _like. Broncho-defibrilla—no, _dilate_—"

"A bronchodilator?"

"That was it," Bolton confirmed.

"So he had an asthma attack, is that what you're saying?" Well, that made the situation slightly better, though it still did not change the fact that Dr. Quinzel had sent Allan Breedlove to the infirmary. But, no matter. He could dwell on that later; right now he had an appointment with Mr. Wallace.

"You want me to restrain Wallace now or later?" Bolton asked, appearing all too eager to buckle Wallace into the straightjacket.

"Later," he replied. "I'll let you know when."

He quietly closed the door behind him, hearing the single lock slide into place—though he was responsible for the deaths of twelve people, few considered Wallace to be a threat. Understandable, considering his meek appearance and generally nonviolent tendencies. He barely glanced at the tall, skinny boy as he stepped into the cell, placing his briefcase on the table. For his part, Wallace didn't even acknowledge him, too busy throwing a small, rubber ball against the wall opposite him.

"Good afternoon, Daniel."

Outwardly, he always called Wallace by his first name, wanting to create a false sense of security and familiarity. It only seemed to further incense his patient, however, which was at least mildly amusing.

The boy didn't bother turning around, focused on the ball as it hit the floor with a loud _smack_.

He pursed his lips, glancing at his briefcase. In it, he had concealed a hypodermic needle and a bottle of liquidized fear. All he had to do was inject it into the little bastard's neck and Wallace would be curled up in the corner, screaming and sobbing. It was very tempting…

But the effects of his toxin weren't permanent yet, which wouldn't have been a problem had Wallace been seriously mentally ill, like the others. But the fact that the boy was quite lucid meant that, once the solution left his system, he would be able to recollect what had happened and would undoubtedly alert someone. True, it was unlikely that anyone would believe the boy, but still. He wasn't foolish enough to take the risk. Besides, it was always entertaining to see how far he was able to push someone using only his own mind.

"If you wouldn't mind putting that down during our session," he demanded, the warning clear in his voice. _Put it away, or I'll take it away._

Wallace sighed, tossing the ball onto is cot.

"Why do I still even _have _sessions? I mean, what's the point?" The boy turned to face him, brushing short, black hair out of narrowed green eyes.

He raised his eyebrows. _Showing more hostility than usual, more or less unprovoked. This will go faster than I thought._

"It's like…I know you don't think I'm crazy, you're not really trying to help me—fuck, you don't even _like _me—"

"An astute observation, Mr. Wallace," he commended dryly. "Tell me, have you always been concerned with getting others to like you?"

"See? That's what I mean—that kinda shit, right there. You're always changing the fucking subject. You don't even try to listen to me or figure out what any of my problems are."

_I know all about your 'problems,' Mr. Wallace. And quite frankly, they're boring._

"You act like you're wasting your time by being here," Wallace complained.

_That's because I _am, he thought, but said, "I think you're confused, Daniel. If I'm not mistaken, _you're _the one who just said that our sessions were pointless. I haven't said much of anything."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Given your condition, it isn't surprising that you're harboring paranoid delusions, even about your doctor. But you must understand, Daniel, that I'm only here to help you."

The boy rolled his eyes, flopping down onto his cot to stare moodily at the ceiling.

"Bullshit. As if you or anyone else gives a damn about me." Wallace turned to glare at him. "Although, maybe you do care, you just suck at being a doctor."

_You found me out. I'm nothing but a failure. That's why I earned my doctorate at age twenty-two._ Outwardly, he remained silent, allowing Wallace to rant for a moment while he focused intently the boy's behavior.

"They probably thought I'd be able to 'relate' to you better. That's the only reason I can come up with. Cuz you're only, what, like five years older than I am? Maybe? Why the fuck did they assign you to me?"

_Funny. I was just asking myself the same question_, he thought sardonically, though, admittedly, he also thought that their closeness in age was why Gooding had stuck him with Wallace.

"I mean, they can't think that you're qualified enough—haven't I been diagnosed with whatever the medical term is for 'incredibly fucked up?'"

"Daniel," he said quietly, removing his glasses, "I'm concerned about the state of your psyche. I'm not saying that you were the picture of mental health when you arrived at Arkham, but lately I've noticed an increase in paranoia and hostility—not to mention the fact that you seem to be suffering from severe delusions. You have a constant desire to be the center of attention, you're convinced that everyone is out to get you—including me, of all people—and you seem to see yourself as an all-important, all-powerful figure who strikes terror into the hearts of everyone."

"That's not, I mean—"

"Quite frankly, this…God complex is what worries me the most. It's not healthy to have such an insatiable need for attention. And the more you convince yourself of this, the harder it's going to be once you realize that it isn't true."

Wallace looked confused, sitting up and stuttering, "What? What the hell are you saying?"

"I'm saying that the world does not revolve around you, Daniel. Even now, the media has pretty much forgotten your little stunt—"

"The fuck—it wasn't little!"

"Murdering seven people with a gun at point blank hardly constitutes as a crime, nowadays. GCN has more important matters to cover—they're still talking about Allan Breedlove, and he's been here for several months." He stared Wallace down, smirking inwardly, knowing that the boy was hanging on his every word, even if it wasn't what he wanted to hear. "In fact, I doubt if _any_one is talking about you anymore. The families and friends of the people you killed are still in mourning, I'm sure, but they're thinking about their lost loved ones, not you. And from what I've read, you didn't have many friends, and as for the ones you _did_ have, I imagine you're the _last_ person that they want to talk to."

"That's a fucking lie—they care—they're thinking about me right now—"

"Have any of them ever bothered to visit you?"

No answer. He smiled coldly.

"I thought not. What about your parents, Daniel?" he asked quietly. "When was the last time they stopped by?"

"Two…two weeks ago—but that doesn't mean that they don't care! They're just…they're busy, okay? I don't know…"

"Too busy for their own son?" he queried, then shook his head. "I doubt that. It's more likely that they can't stand to see you in here. It reminds them too much of how they _failed_. They're probably disgusted at the thought of you. They'd rather forget that you exist."

The boy's gaze dropped, and he stared hard at the cement floor.

"The truth is that they don't care about you. No one does. Not your friends, or your family… You're not important enough to care about. You've done nothing to merit their attention. You've contributed nothing of value to society. You took a gun to school, and you killed seven helpless people. That is _all _that you did, nothing more. One brief second in the spotlight. And soon, no one will even remember that. No one, save for _you_, Daniel, who will spend the rest of his life in a mental institution—as another nameless prisoner amidst countless others. You'll be locked away in a windowless cell where no one will ever think of you. Completely alone. _Forgotten_."

His patient was shaking by this point, sitting head down, shoulders hunched with his arms wrapped around himself, fingernails biting into flesh. He looked like he was ready to either scream or cry, freckled cheeks pink with pent-up emotion, his mouth scrunched painfully small. Then, slowly, the boy lifted his rage-red face to look at him.

"You son of a bitch… Mother-fucking son of a bitch—that…that's not true! Where the hell do you get off saying shit like that!? Who the fuck—what do you know!?"

In an instant, Wallace was on his feet, fists clenched, utterly livid.

"Not a damn thing, you understand me? You haven't got a fucking _clue!_ You think my parents don't care about me, that nobody gives a _shit!?_ Fuck you, y'know that? _Fuck you!_"

"Daniel, calm down," he said, though he didn't put forth much effort to pacify his patient, content to sit and watch the boy rant for a while.

"Don't tell me what to do—you're a Goddamn liar! Telling me that what I did wasn't a big deal? _Bull shit!_ I _know _it was a big deal, all right? A _big _fucking deal! I went into school and I _wasted_ those mother-fuckers—I wasted them all—blew their worthless asses away! And I'd do it again! I _want _to do it again! Only this time, I'd go apeshit on _this _place, doc, and you'd be the first one to go, you lying son of a bitch—"

Eyes never leaving the raving boy, he slowly reached over and pushed call buzzer that signaled the guard standing outside.

Within seconds, Lyle Bolton threw open the door, armed with a tranq. gun and a straightjacket. Wallace stopped dead and stood, gaping, at the towering, muscle-bound guard. Bolton sneered maliciously in return, not bothering to hide his delight at the thought of restraining the boy.

"Mr. Bolton, I'm afraid that Daniel has become rather aggressive," he explained calmly, gathering his briefcase and unfolding his glasses. "Would you see to it that he's restrained until further notice? I would hate for him to do himself an injury."

"What the fuck—!? No!" Wallace sputtered.

"No problem, Dr. Crane," Bolton replied, advancing menacingly toward the boy. "It would be my pleasure."

"Are you fucking _serious!?_" Wallace exclaimed, frightened green eyes darting frantically between him and Bolton.

"Daniel, your delusions only seem to be getting worse, and now they're causing you to become violent and, apparently, suffer from memory lapses as well, as I have already explained this to you _twice_, now."

He watched as his patient grew increasingly confused and panic-stricken, struggling uselessly when the much-stronger Bolton started to buckle him into the straightjacket.

"I'm not, I mean—I'm not crazy! I killed those people, but I'm _not crazy!_ You don't have to do this! I don't need to be in this thing!"

"I hope not, Daniel. At least, not permanently." He gave the boy his best sympathetic expression and apologetic sigh before shaking his head and turning to address Bolton.

"If he gets any worse, put him in solitary."

"You got it, doc."

"What!? No! _No!_ I don't need to go in there—_don't put me in there!_"

Slipping on his glasses, he turned and strode out of the cell, lips curling upward in a smirk as Wallace's screams followed him down the hall.

* * *

And that, boys and girls, is why you should never sass Dr. Crane. If you do, as a friend of mine once said, "He will fuck your shit up. _Big time_." That said, I hope you guys weren't killed by the ridiculous length of this chapter. It really got out of hand.

Notes

…she had had a thing for musicians… – one of my first inspirations for Harley's persona was the singer P!nk (or Pink, whichever you prefer). Not only is she one of the few good artists out there, but she also seems to have the angry, doesn't-take-shit attitude while it's still clear that she's human and capable of being hurt—all of which I felt would suit a Nolan-verse Harley well. So, with this in mind, I thought that she would have dated punk rockers when she was younger.

...the tall, handsome businessman – no lie, this is a subtle reference to Patrick Bateman of _American Psycho_, as well as a nod to Christian Bale. If you haven't seen the movie and/or read the book, I'd highly recommend both. It's definitely something that Harley would enjoy, anyway.

…a shady, redheaded art dealer… – I don't want the notion of a Pamela/Harley pairing to be a big part of this story—no UST, no longing looks from Pammy, and no hopelessly oblivious Harley, since, as a shrink, I'd think that she'd notice right away if her best friend had those sort of feelings for her. But I don't mind including some homosexual undertones since I definitely think that Pamela swings that way and that Harley focuses more on personality than anything else, including someone's sex. That said, I like the idea that the only women that she's really attracted to are redheads, and this kinda goes back to her redheaded doll, Jessica, from Chapter II.

She hated receiving attention of any kind… – I remember reading somewhere about how Pamela Isley was somewhat of a 'shrinking violet' before becoming Poison Ivy. And since this story more or less focuses on who everyone was before they lost their minds and donned their masks, I figured it would be right to include shy, antisocial, feminist Pamela who wouldn't dream of using her sex appeal to get her way. And also, in case anyone is interested, I'm rather fond of the idea of Laura Prepone (_That '70s Show_) playing Poison Ivy.

The Rose Hill Sanatorium for Women – funny thing is, Rose Hill is actually the name of a cemetery in my area. Thing is, when I was a kid, my dad told me that it was where they buried all of the convicts that were sent to the electric chair. And, of course, he always finished his charming little story with "So, who wants to go on a midnight stroll through the graveyard?" Ah, memories.

…posters of Ashton Kutcher and the Jonas Brothers – for this, I tried to come up with the lamest, most hyped-up, so-called 'pretty boys' that I could think of. Needless to say, I care neither for Ashton nor the Jo Bros.

Allan Breedlove – since, in previous chapters, I've built him up to sound like an incredibly nasty man, I tried my best to ensure that Breedlove lived up to his fearsome reputation. So, I decided to base him, albeit roughly, on Hannibal Lecter (mostly his dialogue) and real-life serial/lust killer Jerry Brudos who's mother rejected him and dressed him in girl's clothing because she wanted a daughter and who grew up to be a notorious murderer with a shoe/foot fetish who tortured, raped, and killed eight young women. Also, for those of you who are literature fans like myself, the name 'Breedlove' comes from Toni Morrison's _The Bluest Eye _(which is excellent, by the way) and I initially used it because I felt that it simply sounded rather ominous and therefore fitting of my character, long before I'd even created a past for Allan. What makes this interesting is that, in Morrison's novel, the protagonist, Pecola Breedlove, is raped and impregnated by her father, Cholly Breedlove, when she is very young—an incident that contributes to her eventual descent into madness.

He cleared his throat – this is often a trait associated with people who suffer from asthma, hence why Breedlove does it. Unlike the lip thing, which is just a bad habit.

"…I prefer Versace." – if anyone is familiar with fashion designers (or serial killers), you might get this. Gianni Versace was, of course, a very famous figure in the fashion world. He also had the misfortune of being the fifth and final victim of serial killer Andrew Cunanan. So, in a way, I felt it was fitting that Versace is Breedlove's favorite designer.

No, he was more pretty than handsome – originally, I'd intended to make Breedlove look like a real slime ball, but then the idea to base him on Jerry Brudos struck me (even though Brudos wasn't really an attractive man) and besides that, I wanted to stick with the Hot Bad Guys theme that Nolan clearly has going.

_Is he an asthmatic?_ – I recently read that scientists are finding more and more evidence to support the idea that psychological stress can trigger an asthma attack. It can modulate the person's immune system, causing an increased inflammatory response to allergens.

The boy was an outcast… – according to research done on school shootings, the image of the loner who finally snaps is actually more of a stereotype than an actual fact. Apparently, most of the time, the kids are 'joiner' types, they have friends, and are sometimes even bullies themselves. And they usually don't just 'snap' one day; usually their killing sprees are planned months, sometimes even years in advance. Unless it's in a parody, I normally reading/writing about stereotypical characters, but for Wallace I decided to go with the loner idea because initially he sounds like the kind of person that one would think that Jonathan would see himself in and thus empathize with, but he doesn't. Admittedly, at times it was tempting to have him feel bad for Wallace, but the more reading I did on school shootings and the more the character developed, I suddenly realized that Jonathan would probably be disgusted with a kid who allowed a bunch of muscle-bound morons to push him over the edge and basically ruin his own life.

… that kinda shit… – at first, I thought that it might seem a bit out-of-place to have Daniel using so many profanities since, despite all the corrupted characters and graphic imagery, there really hasn't been much swearing in this story. But I like the idea of having him curse a lot; I feel it makes him sound more like an actual teenage boy, and also because, the more he swears, the more immature and less intelligent he seems, especially when he's having a conversation with Jonathan.

**Disclaimer: **I now own Daniel Wallace along with any other original characters, though still nobody from the _Batman_ series, including Pamela Isely. Oh, and Mark Tess the guard has belonged to me since Chapter I, but I completely forgot to stake claims on him until now. :-)


	6. Whipping Boy

**Chapter VI**

_**Whipping Boy**_

"Children become, while little, our delights,

When they grow bigger, they begin to fright's.

Their sinful Nature prompts them to rebel,

And to delight in Paths that lead to Hell."

– John Bunyan, "Book for Boys and Girls"

* * *

Note: While there is little gore, death, extreme violence, graphic imagery, or even foul language in this chapter, I feel that I should warn you that there is some child abuse, though much of it is psychological. However, especially after having re-read this chapter, I think that that is actually more upsetting than the physical abuse.

And also, I do not mean to offend anyone by including anti-Semitic remarks in this chapter. They are merely meant to help the story and the characters seem more realistic, and in no way do they reflect any of my personal views. If it is any consolation, though I myself am an agnostic, my father's side of the family is Jewish.

* * *

The nurses tried to force the baby on her, but Susan staunchly refused.

"Ma'am, holding your child is crucial after birth! It helps create a bond—"

"I don't care," she snapped, hoarse from screaming during her thirteen-hour labor. "It's going to die anyway. And _don't _call me 'ma'am,' I'm only sixteen—_sixteen_, and I have to go through _this_…" She broke off, sobbing weakly.

"I'm sorry, 'miss' then," the nurse said, stroking her hair consolingly.

Even through the haze of pain and misery, Susan could tell that the older woman had mistakenly thought that she was in premature mourning, convinced that her newborn child would soon be dead. She believed that that was why Susan didn't want to hold it: The poor girl was trying to spare herself a broken heart by refusing to become attached to her baby.

The truth was that Susan was only crying out of the immense relief that she felt, knowing that her agony (at least, the physical portion of it) was over. There was even a chance that the little bastard might die—she wouldn't have to be a mother, she could go back to school, see all of her friends, show her face in public again, though who would want to look at her now, she didn't know. She was certain that she was ugly, that, when it had been inside her, that _thing _had sucked the life and beauty out of her, bled her dry. Susan couldn't understand how it could possibly be in 'ill health,' as the doctor and nurses had told her before they had quickly rushed the small, screaming creature out of the room. She hadn't even gotten a good look at it; she hadn't wanted to.

And now the nurse was trying to talk her into _holding _it? Susan looked up at her like she was mad, stared in furious, weary confusion through tear-rimmed eyes at the short, squat figure of a woman with a round, dimpled face and a curly, mousy bob. She wasn't even cute. Yet Susan was grateful for this; she didn't think that she would have been able to stand the sight of anything pretty, looking the way she did now.

"There, now, you've stopped crying," the nurse was saying, still petting Susan's limp, sweat-soaked hair. "There's no need to be so upset—the doctor says your baby is going to be fine."

For a moment, she thought that her heart had stopped.

"What…?"

The nurse was beaming down at her. Susan wanted to rip her flabby face off.

"He's rather sickly and severely underweight, but he's going to be just fine. They want to keep an eye on him for now, but you should be able to take him home by the end of the week."

This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening, this wasn't happening, this wasn't happening this wasn't happening this wasn't happeningthiswasn'thappeningthiswasn'thappening_thiswasn'thappeningthiswasn'thappeningthiswasn'thappening…_

"But…I thought…" Susan trailed off, her jaw moving soundlessly.

The nurse shook her head, brainless smile still plastered across her face.

"No, no, he'll be all right. That's why I asked if you wanted to hold him—"

"_I don't want to hold it, I already told you!_" she shrieked, her anger giving her the strength to sit up and glare daggers at the idiotic nurse.

For a brief second, the nurse's sunny smile was gone as she paled, her brown eyes going wide. Then, her thin lips pressed into a frown and she glared at Susan sternly.

"Miss, I've explained to you how many times that if you want to ensure a connection with your child, you _must _bond with him after he's been born."

"I don't _want_—"

"At least look at your child, then," the nurse insisted, clearly growing unnerved.

Susan sighed wearily, eyes sliding shut. Didn't this awful woman understand? She was _exhausted_, she wanted to _sleep_… The last thing that she wanted to do was look at the horrid brat that had drained nearly every last bit of energy from her. Surely that could wait until later? What difference would it make? It was not as if she wanted to form a bond with it, not after what it had done to her, after the hell that it had put her through.

"_Please_, miss," the nurse tried again. "I know you must be tried, but it's very important that you see each other."

She gripped the pale blue hospital sheets as tightly as she was able in her current condition and said through clenched teeth, "If I say yes, can I finally go to sleep?"

"Of course," the other woman replied, though she looked a little disappointed in Susan's response.

"Fine," she said flatly, turning away to stare out at the bleak, February sky. It was Valentine's Day, of all things. A day for lovers. And she was alone. No, not alone. The nurse had just informed her that the _thing _was still alive. Of course, the little demon would be born on this day.

Susan didn't even bother to look over when the nurse returned flanked by two other women—one tall, gangly and horse-faced with straw-like blonde hair; the other of average height and shapeless save for her overblown hips, with black, frizzy curls, too many freckles, and a pair of large, red lips that reminded Susan of the wax kind that her friends always had on Halloween when they were little.

The nurses brought with them a small cart that had a transparent, plastic hood placed over top of it, along with all sorts of tubes and wires, and all three of them were chattering away, happily explaining what everything did, saying something about needing to prevent heat loss, maintaining a balance of fluids and vitamins, and thank God they didn't have to worry about RDS, IVH, or PDA. For the most part, Susan paid little attention to what the woman was saying; it wasn't as if she understood any of it, anyway. Her Handsome Stranger probably would, what with his wanting to be a doctor, but he wasn't with her at the moment, and she refused to think about him, no matter how much she had whimpered and sobbed for her lost love during the final, agonizing hours of her pregnancy.

She bit her lip, eyes burning.

"Miss Crane?" the short, chubby nurse asked softly.

Susan said nothing, merely glanced at her, but the woman appeared to take it as confirmation that she was ready, moving to help her sit up straighter while the two other nurses made a fuss about the strange, clear plastic cart.

"I'm only going to look," Susan warned them all, though she kept her eyes on the first woman. "I don't want to hold it."

"I know, dear, I know," she said placatingly. "For now, it's probably best that we keep him in the incubator, anyway." She motioned to the other nurses to wheel the cart over to the side of the bed so that Susan had a better view.

She didn't want to do this. Her mind was screaming at her not to look—as if seeing the thing would seal her fate. But really, what difference would it make? The accursed creature was going to live; her fate was already sealed whether she saw it or not.

Taking in a deep, steadying breath, she opened her eyes and turned her head to look at the child.

And stared.

Susan remembered hearing once that a mother falls in love with her child the second she realizes that she's pregnant, or, if not that, then the moment she sees her baby for the first time. Thinking back on it, now, she knew that it wasn't true.

She gazed upon the thing in the strange, plastic box and she didn't love it.

All around her, the nurses sighed and cooed, fawning over the tiny creature in the plastic box.

"Isn't he adorable? Isn't he just precious? Isn't he the cutest little thing?"

No, it wasn't.

These women were insane. They must have been, to have said such things. Susan could recall someone telling her that all new babies were ugly, that they were always red and noisy and fussy and look like old people, but _this thing_… It wasn't like any old person she had ever seen, and it certainly didn't look like a child. Except a dead child, maybe. Everything about it was so incredibly small. Its limbs were thin and shaking and she could count almost every one of its ribs. Sallow skin stretched tight over brittle bones, so transparent she could see veins popping out all over its frail body.

It was ugly.

Susan stared at the thing, and it stared back. That was the only thing about it that wasn't small: its eyes. They were too big.

"Such a little angel… He has your eyes, dear," remarked the brunette nurse.

Susan's head snapped up, her face blank as she stated harshly:

"All babies have blue eyes."

Ignoring the upset and confused looks, Susan laid down, turning over on her side, back to them all. She heard one of the nurses whisper something about postpartum depression and decided that she didn't care, casting one last look at the miserable view before shutting everything out.

She would not turn around to see if it was still staring at her.

* * *

By the age of three, Jonathan could do many things that most three-year-olds couldn't do. He could read and write, and he could talk almost as well as grown-ups could. It helped that nobody had ever really talked to him like he was a child, or treated him like one, either. He didn't have a lot of toys or games or picture books; just Mother's things from when she was little, like the rabbit. It had soft gray fur, shiny black eyes, floppy ears, and a green ribbon around its neck. It was his favorite and he took it with him everywhere because it was the only thing that Mother had ever given him, and she had given it to him because he had been crying and she didn't like it when he did that, and so after yelling "_Why _can't you ever _be quiet!?_" at him, she had taken her rabbit from her bed and thrown it at him, and she had never taken it back, so now it was his.

He also knew that he wasn't treated like a child because, whenever he and Mother and Grandmother would go to church, Jonathan would hear the other kids using words like 'horsey' and 'doggy' and 'blankie' and 'Mommy' but he wasn't allowed to say things like that. It always had to be 'horse,' 'dog,' 'blanket,' and especially 'Mother,' never 'Mommy.' She didn't like it when he called her 'Mommy,' though Jonathan didn't know why. When he had asked his Grandmother after she had slapped him for saying 'duckie,' she had told him that words like that were for silly children.

Not that Jonathan really knew what other children were like. He only ever saw them at church, since Mother and Grandmother wouldn't let him play with anyone. He didn't mind a lot because he liked reading and coloring the most and he liked to do those things by himself, but sometimes he got bored. And lonely. And Mother and Grandmother both said that they didn't like to play with him, so he made up people in his head and played with them instead. It had been nice for a while, having someone who liked to talk to him, but then Mother had heard him in his room, by himself, talking to no one, and she had gotten very mad and yelled at him and told him that only crazy people did what he had been doing and that if she ever, _ever_ caught him doing that again, she would send him away to some place called a madhouse where he would be locked up in the dark with lots of bad, crazy people and he would never be allowed to see her again.

That would have been the worst. Jonathan loved his mother very much and didn't want to be taken away from her. When she told him that he would be if he kept talking to himself, he had started to cry, running forward to hug her legs, forgetting that she didn't like crying or being touched. Mother hadn't been happy about that and she had quickly shoved him away, but he hadn't really noticed since he had been too busy promising that he would never, ever, ever talk to people who weren't there again.

But sometimes it was hard to keep his promise. Like whenever he made Mother mad and he didn't know why and she would send him to bed without dinner and he would be awake for a long time because his stomach hurt so much because he hadn't had breakfast or lunch either, or when he said his Hail Marys wrong and Grandmother would paddle him before locking him in the cold, dark root cellar with the dirt floor and no windows and…_things_ that made noise, but he didn't know what they were. He wanted someone to come and talk to him, but no one ever did, and so he thought about talking to the people he had made up, even though he had promised Mother he wouldn't do that anymore. But was it still bad if he kept the talking in his head and didn't say anything out loud? Jonathan wasn't sure. It didn't _seem _like it would be as bad, because nobody would know about it except him. And sometimes he talked in his head to himself and he didn't even know it at first. Was that still his fault? Was it so bad? He didn't think so, as long as no one else knew. He had to keep it a secret, or else Mother would send him away.

The madhouse was _scary_—the scariest thing in the world to Jonathan, after Grandmother. Mother had said that it was where they put little boys who behaved badly, like he always did. But he _tried _to be good, he really did. He didn't run in the house or make a lot of noise, and he always put all of his things away and made his bed in the morning. But he always seemed to do bad things, even though he didn't mean to. Like when one of the children in Sunday school, a big kid named Bo Griggs, had given him a mean look and told him that his parents said that Jonathan was a bastard and that his mother was a whore. Jonathan had been called a bastard before, sometimes by Mother and sometimes by Grandmother, and though he didn't know what it meant, he didn't think that it could be anything nice. But he had never heard of a whore and when he asked Grandmother what it was, she had slapped him hard across the face and then made him eat a whole bar of soap, which had made him sick for three days. And he still didn't know what a whore was, but he _did _know better than to ask.

The worst was when he made Mother cry. Jonathan never meant to do that, and he always tried his best not to, but sometimes it just happened and he wouldn't even know why. Once, as he was leaving Sunday school to find Mother and Grandmother, one of the other kids' fathers had come up to him and, laughing and smiling, said, "So, boy, is your father coming to pick you up today? Where is he? For that matter, _who _is he?" and then the man had laughed as if that was the funniest thing in the world.

Jonathan had stood there, unsure and confused as he looked up at the rest of the grown-ups. Some were laughing like the man, some frowned at him like he had done something wrong, and others shook their heads and looked sad. It had made him mad. He _hated _not knowing the answer to a question.

After that, he had run off to find Mother and Grandmother, and ask what that man was talking about, why were those people laughing at him, and why didn't he know who his father was? Mother always told him that he asked too many questions, so he mostly tried to find the answers on his own, but this time he couldn't help it. He ran up to Mother, tugged on her skirt, and asked:

"Mother, who's my father? Why do the other kids have one and I don't?"

Mother's face had turned pink and she looked around like she was scared, but then she looked down at Jonathan like she wanted to hit him again and again. He had never seen Mother look so mad before, but he didn't think that she would hit him—Grandmother always did that; Mother didn't like to touch anyone, but she didn't like touching him the most. It was because he was dirty—that was what she always said, "Stop crying, Jonathan, you dirty little bastard!" or "You filthy brat, what have I told you about asking questions?" He _didn't _like taking a bath, but he always tried to keep clean. And the only reason he didn't like baths was because Grandmother would always hold him under if she thought that he was taking too long and scream about how wasteful he was. But it never seemed to matter how clean he was, because Mother still thought that he was dirty. And that was what she had said that day, too, when he had asked about his father.

"You _dirty_, dis_gust_ing little monster," she whispered, her voice full of hate. Then she had tears in her eyes.

Jonathan stumbled back, confused.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—the man, he asked me—" He looked around, but couldn't find the man who had gotten him to ask such a terrible question. His eyes burned and he knew that he was starting to cry, too. "I'm sorry, Mommy, please don't be mad—"

"_Don't _call me that, you awful, _awful_…"

Mother had never finished because she turned away and took off for home. Jonathan was still crying when he felt one of Grandmother's hands, which he always thought looked more like claws, seize his wrist. She put her face very close to his and he started to shake.

"Don't you dare make a scene, boy."

He had nodded quickly and she pulled him along, talking about how he must never, _ever _ask such a question again and how there wasn't an appropriate enough punishment for something so awful, and how she couldn't think of how he could have hurt his mother more.

When they got home, Grandmother had told him to go to his room until she could figure out what she called 'what proper disciplinary actions to take.' She was the scariest, most horrible woman in the world, so Jonathan almost always did what she said, but not that time. He _almost _did, really. He went upstairs and was on his way to his bedroom, but he had to pass his mother's room to get there, and her door had been open, so he hadn't been able to help looking in, and when he saw that she was asleep and not crying anymore, well…he wasn't really sure what had made him do it. It was just that…well…he really wanted to.

Mothers were supposed to take care of their children and love them no matter what; that was how it always was in the books that Jonathan read. The kids could do the most horrible things, but, in the end, their mothers still loved them. So, he thought that it must have had something to do with him. Something was wrong with him—Grandmother always said that he was a bastard, the Devil's child. And he knew that God was good and Satan was bad, though sometimes he wondered just what made everyone so sure about God, because if He was good then why had He let him be born, if he was Satan's child? It was confusing, but he knew better than to ask; Mother and Grandmother both loved God so much, he couldn't even think of how he would be punished for questioning Him. But maybe questioning God was proof that he was Satan's son? And if he was, that must have been why Mother didn't want anything to do with him and that was why she had gotten so sad when he had asked her who his father was. That didn't seem fair to Jonathan; he tried to be good, and he certainly didn't _want _to be Satan's child.

He had decided to prove to Mother that he never meant to do anything bad, even if he was the son of the Devil, like Grandmother said. And maybe that was what had been going through his head when had looked in his mother's room and seen her sleeping on her bed, her face still wet with tears. He thought that if Mother woke up and he was there, and she saw that nothing bad had happened, maybe then she might like him better. Maybe? A little bit?

That might have been what he was thinking, but he wasn't sure because he had suddenly felt so sleepy after seeing Mother like that, he couldn't remember much of anything except sneaking into the room and standing next to the bed. Mother had been asleep on her back with her right arm over her chest and the other arm stretched out beside her. Jonathan had never really liked fairy tale books, but he thought that his mother looked kind of like a princess like that, asleep with her yellow hair all spread out over the pillows. He couldn't help climbing onto the bed and curling up next to her. He closed his eyes and thought that Mother might have put her arm around him in her sleep. He wasn't sure, though. He might have dreamt it.

The next thing he remembered was lots of screaming. At first he had thought that he was having a nightmare because he almost always had nightmares ever since he was little. But the bed kept moving and he wasn't the one screaming, and it was more like yelling a lot of angry words, Jonathan wasn't sure…

"What are you doing in here!? Get out! Get off! _Go!_"

He had opened his eyes and seen Mother's angry face just before he had been pushed off the bed. And none of the rooms in the house had carpeting, so it had hurt even more when he had landed on his side and knocked his head against the floor.

Mother was still yelling at him, but Jonathan couldn't really hear her. Everything sounded far away and the room kept moving. He tried to remember how he had gotten there…something about not making Mother angry anymore, but it had gone all wrong, and now his head hurt and so did his arm and his leg, too, and Mother was _still _yelling at him.

"How dare you sneak in here! Go to your room!"

He tried to stand, but there was too much pain in is leg, even though later he would find out that it was just a lot of bruising.

"What is _wrong _with you!?" Mother had shouted. "I told you to get out!"

"Mommy…" he gasped, tears sliding down his cheeks.

"What have I told you about calling me that? You're not a baby anymore, Jonathan—stop acting so childish—"

"But Mommy that _hurt_…" he cried before he could stop himself.

Mother looked angry, maybe even more angry than when he had asked her who his father was. He had started to shake and cried even harder, unsure of what to do.

"If you aren't in your room by the count of three," Mother had warned him, "I'm going to send your grandmother after you. Is that what you want?"

Jonathan shook his head quickly. Mother nodded and began counting.

"One…"

His whole right side hurt, but Grandmother's punishments were worse, so he had gotten to his feet and hurried out the door as fast as he could.

"Two…"

He had been able to see Grandmother coming up the stairs with her cane, and his leg had almost made him fall down when he had started to run away from her.

"Three!"

He dashed into his room just in time, slamming the door shut and locking it even though he wasn't supposed to do that. He didn't care anymore; he was scared. Mother was mad at him and Grandmother was too, even though he hadn't _meant _to do anything wrong; he'd just wanted to know who his father was…

He had started to hiccup, just like he always did whenever he'd been crying for too long, and he had wrapped his arms around himself, rocking slightly and looking around his room for help.

A knock at the door had made him jump, and then he had heard Grandmother's voice telling him to come out and explain himself and…he couldn't, he just _couldn't_. Grandmother was always so scary, especially when she was mad, and he knew that she had her cane with her and that never meant anything good, and he was shaking so badly, he knew that he couldn't go out and see her, not when he was so afraid of what she might do…

Jonathan had looked around his room again, still rocking himself because it made him feel a little better and because no one else would. And just as Grandmother's knocking got even louder, he saw his stuffed rabbit sitting on his bed. He ran over and grabbed it just as Grandmother started rattling the doorknob. The loud, creepy noise had made his shaking even worse and he still had the hiccups as he dove underneath his bed and pushed himself toward the upper right corner where his nightstand sat next to the bed. That way, he was as far away from the door as he could possibly be and having the nightstand against his back might protect him. From what, he hadn't been sure and he hadn't wanted to know.

The doorknob rattled again as the pounding grew even louder.

"I mean it, boy, if you don't unlock this door this _in_stant, so help me…"

Grandmother's threat had made him shiver and curl himself up into a tight little ball. It had hurt, trying not to sob, and he had hidden his face behind his toy rabbit as more tears fell and made its fur all wet.

* * *

Dr. Dianne Andrews adjusted her dark green spectacles as she observed the little boy sitting across from her at the round, plastic children's table. Judging by his expression, it looked like he thought that her trying to squeeze herself into one of the table's tiny, matching chairs was just as silly and pointless as she did. She wasn't fooling anyone, or at least, not this child. Still, her training had taught her that if she wanted to make any progress with her patients, she needed to put herself on their level.

_But literally?_ she wondered, shifting uncomfortably in the little chair. _And I'm still three feet taller than he is._

Then again, at 5'9, she was taller than most women, and the boy _was _small for his age—almost six, according to his mother, yet he looked closer to four, at the oldest. It was no surprise that the other children picked on him, small and frail as he was. And he would most likely be a prime target for all sorts of cruel taunts and humiliation as he grew older, too, Dianne noted as she took in the child's decidedly feminine features. That tiny nose and that sulky mouth with those wide, blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes—she hoped that he would have enough sense to never wear his hair long when he got older, because she couldn't think of the trouble that would follow him if he did. Not that something like that should have mattered, and to an out-of-towner like herself, it didn't. But the unfortunate truth was that most of the narrow-minded people in that area would want little to do with a boy who looked so…delicate, she supposed was a nice word to use. It was less insulting than 'girly,' at least. In any case, going by what she had read in his file, the child apparently didn't want much to do with his peers, anyway. Although his teachers _had _found it unsettling, and so they had looked to Dianne, the school's first guidance counselor, to figure their student out and hopefully push him in the right direction.

"Now, Jonathan, I'm going to show you a series of pictures, and I want you to tell me what you see. Okay?"

He seemed willing enough, but when Dianne held up the first picture in the Rorschach test, he scrunched his nose in confusion.

"Wait…that's not a picture."

"Not the kind of picture we're _used _to seeing, no, " she told him patiently. "You can see whatever you want in pictures like these. Some children might see a…a person riding a bike or a or the face of someone they know—or even something as detailed as, say…a swarm of beautiful butterflies floating over a field of daffodils."

"But it's just a black splotch, isn't it?"

"It can be whatever you want it to be," Dianne explained. "Pictures like these let _you _make up what's in them."

"Then, wouldn't it be better if I just drew my own picture?" he asked.

"Would you rather do that?" she inquired, keeping her eyes on him as she put the inkblots away. Somehow, she doubted that she would get anywhere using them.

He shrugged.

"I guess."

"Why don't you tell me what you like to do? Do you have a favorite game?"

"Not really," he replied.

"You mean there aren't any games that you like to play at recess?"

"I don't really like games," he said. "I like to read."

"You don't like playing with the any of the other kids?"

Dianne tipped her head to the side, the thick auburn curls of her ponytail bobbing like tiny corkscrews as she watched the little boy press his lips together in thought.

"No," he finally admitted. "They're not very interesting—and they never know what I'm talking about, and then they make fun of me, so…" He shrugged again. "I like to read."

"Well, according to your teacher, you're a very good student. She says you're one of the smartest ones in her class."

The boy lowered his head, and she noticed the faint blush staining his pale cheeks.

"Thank you," he said politely, as if not sure how else to reply.

"Does anyone ever tell you that you're smart?"

His only response was a third shrug, which didn't tell her much.

"You said that the other children don't understand you," she went on. "Do you think that maybe it's because you're a little more…advanced…than they are?"

Again, he looked like he was unsure of how to answer her.

"I dunno. Maybe."

Dianne folded her hands on top of the little plastic table, watching him carefully.

It really was a shame for such a bright child to be so ostracized, which he undoubtedly was. When Dianne had spoken to his mother, the younger woman had seemed like she was at her wit's end, as if she was certain that her son was isolating himself on purpose, which, to an extent, he _was _but only because he couldn't relate to the other children. One couldn't have a child with his kind of intelligence and expect him to fit in easily. Talking to him was like talking to a miniature adult.

Dianne repressed the urge to shake her head in dismay. It was bad enough that the little boy would most likely be teased for being so small and feminine—now his incredible intellect and lack of social skills would be added to the list.

"You said that they make fun of you," she said gently. "What do they say? Do they call you any names?"

He worked his jaw a bit, squirming in his seat.

"Sometimes."

With a sinking heart, she pressed him further.

"Would you mind telling me what they call you?"

* * *

Jonathan didn't like Nathan Shapiro, attorney-at-law. But then, Nathan Shapiro didn't like Jonathan very much either, so he supposed that everything balanced out. Although, it did get annoying whenever the lawyer went on about how much of a girly little freak he was. It wasn't his fault if he was too small and too skinny for his age—everyone else in his kindergarten class said the same thing; he didn't need Mr. Shapiro—no one had ever told Jonathan what to call the man, so he went with 'Mr. Shapiro' just to be polite—reminding him of it whenever he came home from school. And Mr. Shapiro was so tall and imposing with his dark eyes and neatly trimmed hair and beard. Though Jonathan still thought that he was a loud, hairy idiot most of the time.

Then again—and this didn't mean that Jonathan actually _liked _the man or that he felt bad for him or anything—it was possible that Mr. Shapiro was mean to him because Grandmother was mean to Mr. Shapiro. She didn't like the idea of her 'good Catholic daughter gallivanting with that deceitful, money-grubbing Jew.'

But then, _he _didn't like that Mother was dating Mr. Shapiro, either. He didn't like the man as a person, but he didn't like that Mr. Shapiro never failed to remind his mother that her son wasn't like everyone else, an outcast, a loser, a freak of nature, no good at sports, getting beaten up every day for being too small or too smart or for having ragged clothes and no father—for being a weak little pansy, 'Mommy's mistake,' that was what Mr. Shapiro called him. Why was he allowed to call her 'Mommy,' yet her own son wasn't? That didn't seem fair. But Mother let Mr. Shapiro call her whatever he wanted because Mr. Shapiro was 'good to her,' whatever that meant. Jonathan didn't like it.

And it didn't help that, when the school had called to say that Jonathan hadn't been playing with the other children and that his teachers were concerned, Mr. Shapiro had been the one to talk Mother into sending him to the school guidance counselor, Dr. Andrews, saying, "Maybe she'll be able to straighten the little freak out. Give him some pills to make him normal."

Jonathan wasn't sure what Dr. Andrews had told Mother, but it couldn't have been what she had wanted to hear because all the way home, she had complained about crazy, snooty doctors who thought that they were better than everyone else just because _they _had gone to college, well, just because they had a degree didn't mean that they knew what they were talking about.

Mr. Shapiro, who had driven them home because they couldn't afford a car, had agreed with Mother, although he had begrudgingly said that, "You've gotta admit, Susie, the kid's too smart for his own good. That's why he keeps getting his ass kicked—well, one reason, anyway," he had added, glancing in the rearview mirror at Jonathan and regarding his thin form with distaste.

"I mean, look at him!" Shapiro railed, waving his arm in disgust and nearly swerving off the road because of it since he had taken his hand off of the wheel to make the gesture.

In the passenger's seat, Mother had continued to stare blankly out the window and muttered something about wanting a cigarette. That was another thing that Jonathan didn't like about Mr. Shapiro: Mother had never smoked before she met him. Now it seemed like she was doing it more and more.

Although, she did seem happier. She hardly ever cried anymore, which was definitely good, and she laughed more, and sometimes she even smiled. Mr. Shapiro would take her out dancing and to the movies and fancy restaurants; he was always showing her off and buying her pretty things that made her happy. Maybe that was what Mother meant when she said that Mr. Shapiro was 'good to her.' He made her happy. Jonathan couldn't help but hate the man for that. In fact, that might have been what he hated the most about Mr. Shapiro. Because, try as he might, he had never been able to make his mother happy.

"I can't take much more of this," he heard the lawyer complain to Mother one night when everyone thought that he was asleep. Little did they know, he had always had a hard time falling asleep, and when he finally _did _nod off, he usually had nightmares. At first, he had tried to crawl into bed with Mother, but after the first few attempts had ended with her hissing at him to get back to his room and go to sleep, he had quickly learned that that was a bad idea.

"Keep it down," Mother whispered. "I don't want to think about what would happen if Mother woke up and found you here."

From what Jonathan could tell, they were in Mother's room and Mr. Shapiro was pacing the floor, if the repeated heavy-sounding thuds said anything.

"Well I mean it, Susie, I don't know much more of this I can stand," the lawyer was saying now. "I know she's your mother, but I'm sick of that old battleaxe calling me a kike and a hebe and saying that the only reason I won't marry you is because I'm too damn _cheap_."

"Well, then, prove her wrong, Nathan," Mother suggested. "Marry me."

In his bedroom, Jonathan clung tightly to his stuffed rabbit, hoping that the lawyer would say no, even if it would have made Mother happy. She didn't like him, but he still hoped that maybe she could, but if having Mr. Shapiro around was getting in the way now, being married to him would make things even worse.

"Susie…" he heard the man sigh. "You know I would. I love you, I _want_ to marry you, but…"

"I know," she murmured, sounding defeated.

"_I love you_," Mr. Shapiro said with such sincerity that it was hard to doubt him. "It's just that…Susie, I can't be saddled with some _kid_—especially one that's all messed up with mental problems and health problems and—"

"I know, Nathan, I know," Mother whispered, her voice soothing. "But I've been thinking…"

Jonathan didn't hear much else—he didn't _want _to hear anything else. He got up and shut the door quietly before climbing back into bed, hugging his rabbit as close as he could. His eyes burned and he knew that he was crying before he could even tell himself to stop.

The awful reminder beat painfully in his head:

It was his fault that Mother was unhappy. It was his fault, even though he couldn't help that he was small, or that he got sick all the time, or that the other boys at school beat him up almost every day, or that he was too smart for his own good, like Mr. Shapiro had said. He could have tried to fit in better, even though the other kids only liked to talk about stupid things, and whenever he _did _try to play with them, they always made fun of him. It didn't matter if he could help it or not. It was him. There was something _wrong _with _him_.

Even though it would have hurt, he later wished that he had kept his door open and listened to the conversation between Mother and Mr. Shapiro. He might have overheard their plans and been able to stop her. If he had listened, maybe he could have run to her and promised to be good forever, no matter what. Maybe. He wasn't sure. He had cried himself to sleep, the door had stayed closed, and he would never know if he could have interrupted their plans or not. They were gone one week later.

At first, Jonathan couldn't really understand what had happened. He was in the living room, reading a book on the sagging, moth-eaten couch, when he heard Grandmother's furious outcries coming from the kitchen. Worried, because screaming was never a good thing, especially when it came from his grandmother, he quickly dropped his book and ducked behind the sofa.

"The _nerve!_" Grandmother fumed. "That vicious little tramp! After all I've done for her!"

Jonathan could only assume that she was talking about his mother, though he had never heard Grandmother use such language to describe her daughter before. What had she done…?

"It must be his fault," she determined. "That lying, thieving kike… He's twisted her mind, turned her against me… Filthy, greedy heathen that he is…"

He could hear her getting closer, her footsteps clicking on the scratched hardwood floor.

"And she left that misbegotten brat with me! As if she expects _me _to look after that devil's spawn…"

Now Grandmother was talking about _him_. That was very bad. She was angry and she would take it out on him. He should have left, but he couldn't; he _had_ to know what was going on. He pressed himself closer to the wall and hoped that he wouldn't be seen.

"It's bad enough that she let that, that…_boy_ have his way with her and gave birth to _his _illegitimate child, but now she's run off with that conniving _Jew?_"

He forgot to breathe as his thoughts grew more panicked, but still it didn't really sink in. What was Grandmother talking about?

"Selfish, ungrateful _whore_…" she muttered. "Well, she'll see what a mistake she's made when her time comes...then she'll know that she was wrong to have abandoned her poor mother!"

Abandoned? Mother was gone? He couldn't understand it…but, she would come back. She was only gone for the day… She was spending the day with Mr. Shapiro and she hadn't told Grandmother, who always liked to know where her daughter was. That was why she was mad. That had to be it.

"Boy!" Grandmother suddenly shouted. "Get down here this instant!"

Unable to stop himself, he stepped out from behind the couch. With her back to him, Grandmother didn't notice and continued to yell.

"I mean it, boy—don't make me come and find you!"

Timidly, he spoke up.

"I-I'm right here, Grandmother. Behind you."

She gasped and whirled around, her eyes—just like Mother's, just like his—wide with shock.

"Sneaking up on me, like Satan himself—do you want to put me in an early grave?"

Jonathan blinked, not knowing what to say. True, he didn't like it when his grandmother beat him or yelled at him, which was how most of their time together was spent, but he didn't want her to die. Wishing for someone's death was bad, wasn't it? It would send him to Hell.

"I-I'm sorry," was all he could think to say.

Grandmother shook her head at him, her silvery-blonde hair bound so tightly that it didn't move even an inch.

"You may think that you're sorry now…" Her lips curled upward in a way he didn't like. "Just you wait. It's your fault, you know."

"W-what is?" he stammered, hands shaking. He hated not knowing what was going on, _hated _it.

Grandmother's smirk widened as she bent down to look him in the eye.

"Do you know why your mother left?"

"She's gone?" he asked with growing dread. "For how long? When will she be back?"

His grandmother straightened, looking down at him and placing her spindly, claw-like hands on her boney hips.

"She _won't _be back. Thanks to you, she's run off with that vile, corrupting lawyer."

"Me?" Nervous and confused, he fidgeted with the hem of his sweater. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"No," she said sharply, her voice a threatening hiss. "You aren't, not now. But you will be, boy, you mark my words."

Without another word, she had his wrist in a tight grip and was dragging him out of the room. To the root cellar, most likely. That was where she always put him when he was very bad. But he still didn't understand—what had he done wrong?

"Grandmother, _please_—please, what's going on? Where's Mother?"

"You disgusting little beast, you brought this on yourself—you and your despicable father…"

"My father?" he asked meekly, feeling more lost than ever. "Y-you said he was the Devil—"

"He may as well have been, for all the evil he brought to our family," Grandmother raged, pulling him past the door the lead to the root cellar and up the stairs. "Diabolical, untrustworthy fiend, tricking Susan with his charm and his pretty words… He got what he wanted, but then he ran off when he found out about _you_—"

"But—"

"He didn't want you any more than we did, but at least he had a choice—unlike your mother and I."

"That, that's not true!" He started to cry. "Mother _does _want me, I know she does!"

His grandmother scoffed, hauling him into a room and slamming the door shut behind her. He looked around in confusion, taking in the sight of the maroon painted walls, the canopy bed with the curtains drawn tight, and the old-fashioned furniture that all seemed to be covered in faded, lace doilies. Grandmother's bedroom. But…he wasn't allowed in here—why had she brought him here?

Grandmother began rummaging through the drawers of her dressing table, clearly searching for something.

"That wicked man destroyed your mother's reputation and ruined the family name—why on Earth would she want to keep something that reminded her of him?"

"I...I don't…" Jonathan bit his lip, eyes filling with tears as everything began to make a horrible, undeniable amount of sense. He shook his head vigorously, determined not to believe his grandmother's awful words. Not yet. "I-I want Mommy to tell me this. Where is she? When is she coming back?"

Grandmother didn't even bother to correct him. Instead she turned around, smiling cruelly as she held up an antique perfume bottle, the kind with a bulb and an atomizer, which was filled with a dark red liquid that made him think of blood.

"She isn't coming back, don't you understand that? Worthless, idiotic child…"

"What?" he gasped, unable to comprehend. "Why?"

"She's chosen the lawyer over you—he has money, he takes care of her, he makes her happy."

There were those horrible words again. _He made her happy_. The one thing that Jonathan should have never hoped to do... He couldn't make Mother happy, and now she was gone.

"And so she ran off and left you with me," Grandmother was saying, "because she didn't want you, and the lawyer certainly didn't."

He was on the floor now, crying harder than ever, arms wrapped around his legs, face hidden in his knees.

"They both knew that the son of the Devil would have caused them nothing but trouble—that's all you've ever done," Grandmother continued, slowly approaching him. "Why would they want a child who gets into fights at school and can't make friends and—"

"I want Mommy," he whimpered, sobbing uncontrollably. "I want my rabbit…"

"She's gone," his grandmother said coldly. "And that toy is a demonic pagan symbol if I've ever seen one. I should have burned it years ago."

"Stop…" he begged her softly. "Please stop…"

"Stand up," she ordered. When he didn't respond, her voice became harsher, more demanding. "Stand _up!_"

It wouldn't have mattered if he had moved or not, for she had already seized his arm in a vicious grip and jerked him roughly to his feet. Then, suddenly, he was being sprayed with some sort of mist. He looked up, wincing as the strange liquid burned his eyes.

"What…?"

Grandmother was rapidly squeezing the bulb of her perfume bottle, covering him in whatever horrible red stuff inside was. He coughed, sputtering, thinking that it was a potion of some sort and that maybe his grandmother was an evil witch—she _was _kind of old and she wore black a lot. But witches were servants of Satan, and he knew that Grandmother hated Satan as much as she loved God.

"This is what my mother used to do to my brothers whenever they were naughty," she explained, her eyes glittering. "And they _were _such _bad _little boys—quite like you, Jonathan. Oh, but Mother straightened them out…eventually…"

His grandmother hardly ever called him by his actual name, and it frightened him.

"Grandmother, I—"

"_Be quiet_," she hissed, and he froze in place. "The concoction is a bit old, but it should still be effective. I've been saving this for the right occasion—perhaps when you discovered the fairer sex and all of the depraved, immoral acts that come with it—but after what your mother has done, it feels appropriate to use it now." She gave him a cold smile that shook him to the core. "You thought that the root cellar was a terrible punishment…well, just you wait, soon you'll learn…"

She dragged him out of her bedroom, leading him down the creaky stairs, into the foyer with the ugly yellow wallpaper that was peeling off, through the stained and dirty kitchen that used to be white, past the teal-colored dinning room with its dusty crystal chandelier and battered table and chairs, through Grandmother's pink parlor that was filled with dead birds and teacups, onto the screened-in back porch, and into the backyard.

At first, Jonathan wasn't sure what they were doing outside, but Grandmother turned left and he soon saw where they were going. A small, high-gabled building—Victorian and painted pale yellow with light green gingerbread and wool gray trim to match their house. It had been built for his great-great-grandmother as a wedding gift from his great-great-grandfather, but it hadn't been used for years. He had never even been inside because it was always locked (Grandmother had the key), but he knew what it was.

"Th-the aviary?" he asked hesitantly, eyes still wet with tears. Was she going to lock him inside the sweltering little building until his brains fried and his body dried up and he was nothing more than a wisp of ash?

Grandmother quickly began to unlock the door, as if she couldn't wait to throw him inside and begin his punishment. She had always said that it was for his own good, that she only did such horrible, painful things because she wanted to beat the wickedness out of him. He would thank her, one day—at least, that was what she told him.

"…get rid of those demons—they've been there since birth, put there by your despicable father—that man was the Devil himself, I'm certain of it…Well, we'll fix him, won't we?" Grandmother murmured under her breath, pushing open the old door, the rusted hinges squealing in protest.

"My wanton harlot of a daughter is a lost cause—she was the moment that wretched _kike_ laid eyes on her," Grandmother spat. "She never was a strong one—I blame myself, I was too easy on her, wasn't hard enough—but…" She shook her head. "…I'll not make that same mistake with you, boy." She turned to Jonathan, smiling that eerie smile that held no warmth. "I've learned my lesson. And now, _so will_ _you_."

Her talons sunk into his boney shoulders as she wrenched him around and thrust him into the hot, musty aviary. He tripped face first and skidded across the room, scraping his palms against the gritty floor. New tears falling as he got to his knees, he examined his hands (now bleeding and imbedded with dirt) before looking back at Grandmother.

She stood watching him from the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other fumbling with something that hung around her neck. Triumphant, she held it up, something thin and silver catching in the light. Jonathan squinted. A whistle…? He looked up at his grandmother's face again.

"This is God's will, boy," she said with unyielding conviction. "Remember that."

The door slammed shut.

Shaking, Jonathan wrapped his arms around himself as he heard the sound of a key twisting in its hole, locking him in. He looked around, surprised to find a shaft of light coming from a hole in the ceiling that he hadn't noticed before. Maybe this would be better than the root cellar? The heat was terrible, but at least here he wasn't alone in the dark.

He was still gazing at the hole when he heard a whistle trill from outside.

He looked over at the door again. Nothing happened.

Several seconds passed and Grandmother kept blowing her whistle.

Confused, Jonathan glanced up at the hole in the ceiling. And blinked. There was something moving in the distance. A bird, maybe?

He blinked again. Three birds. Black ones. Three blackbirds? But they looked too big…

And then there were lots of birds. A whole swarm of them that seemed to grow the longer he watched. It was strangely fascinating—he'd never seen so many birds before. And as they drew closer, he heard this loud, grating, cawing noise.

_Crows!_ he thought, pleased to know the answer.

He shivered a little, not liking the sound. But it kept getting louder as the crows drew nearer. Frowning, he covered his ears, glaring up at the growing mass of black.

Suddenly, it seemed as if the sun had gone away, blocked out by the hoard of cawing, fluttering ebony. Jonathan felt his breath begin to quicken—he had always hated the dark. He knew that it was silly—he was almost six, practically a grown-up and much too old to still be afraid of the dark, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't see in the dark, which meant that things could easily hide and then jump out and attack him. And the root cellar was dark, the root cellar with its dirt floor that was so much like the aviary's, the root cellar where Grandmother had always locked him up when he'd been very bad—now she had locked him in the aviary, too, it was just like the root cellar where he couldn't see anything, but he could hear so many frightening, unknown sounds and he _knew_ that something lived down there, something bad, something evil, something terrible and monstrous that wanted to grab him—

Something brushed past his ear and he let out a cry of alarm, flinching backwards and looking around in fear.

In the feeble light, he could see something moving—many things, things with beaks and talons and wings and—

_Crows_, he thought before something hit him. Again. And again. Again and again and again—and now it was starting to _hurt_. They were everywhere, swooping and diving, attacking everything in sight—his arms, his legs, his back, his wrists, his face. Jonathan covered his head, scrambling to his feet, frantically searching some sort of protection, but there was nowhere to hide. He tried to swat the birds away, but the fearsome things only pecked at his arms and fingers, making them bleed. Breath coming in short, panicky gasps, he ran for the door, desperately pounding against the aged wood, seeking help from the unyielding woman outside.

"Let me out! Please! Grandmother, please, _please_ let me out! I'm sorry, I'm _sorry!_ I'll be good, I promise! Just let me out, _please!_ I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—I'll never be bad again, I swear! Just _please _let me out, _please!_"

His cries went unanswered. When he peered through the keyhole, he saw nothing. She was gone.

The crows surrounded him, circling their prey, their horrible, ear-splitting caws cutting through the air. It was all he could do to tuck his legs beneath himself and curl into a ball, arms wrapped around his head, eyes squeezed shut. And still the birds came, ripping and tearing at anything that they could find. Cruel, pointed beaks piercing his flesh, razor-sharp claws shredding his back. Blood seeped from the wounds, warm and sticky, as great black wings beat a haunting tattoo.

He screamed.

* * *

And to think that I'd originally intended to write about Jonathan's grandmother locking him in the aviary and end it at that, without going into all of the awful details about the birds. I just got to thinking that some people might not have read and/or heard about _Scarecrow: Year One_ and would therefore have no idea what it meant when Jonathan was sent to 'the chapel.' Even though I don't call it that in my story. :-P I'm still a terrible, terrible person, though, for making him go through all of that.

Notes

*Looking over this, I just now realized that Jonathan's childhood shares a number of similarities with that of Ed Gein. Both grew up on/near a farm that they weren't allowed to leave except to go to church and school, both had fanatically religious upbringings that were mainly influenced by their mothers (or, in Jonathan's case, it was more his grandmother), and both did well in school, especially with reading. What's more, Gein's fellow students often ridiculed him for his supposedly effeminate demeanor, albeit Jonathan was made fun of because he _looked _effeminate, even if the kids still teased him about his quiet, bookish demeanor. However, this doesn't mean that Jonathan is going to start exhuming corpses and using their flesh to try and make himself a "woman suit" à la Buffalo Bill. He's much too classy to do that. ;-)

******Something funny: Apparently, the name Jonathan means 'gift of God.' How's that for irony? Susie and Granny Crane really should've done some research before going with that one.

Whipping boy – nowadays, it's another term for a fall guy, but it was first coined back in the seventeenth century when a boy was hired to take the place of a prince (or another royal kid) whenever he was punished for doing something bad. The idea was that it would encourage good behavior because the prince and the whipping boy, educated alongside one another, would grow to be BFFs and the prince wouldn't want to see his friend get hurt. My question is, what if they _didn't _become friends? What if the prince was a jerk? Or worse yet, a sadist? Child sadists exist, more than people think. And even if they aren't full-on sadists, most kids get a real kick out of watching another child be reprimanded. Just look at any elementary school: Whenever a teacher pulls a kid aside to yell at them, most the other students eagerly watch like it's the funniest, most exciting thing that's happened all day. Schadenfreude at its best.

Susan couldn't understand how it could possibly be in 'ill health' – probably because she was so damn paranoid about getting fat that she hardly ate anything during her pregnancy. And I'm sure that the hyperemesis gravidarum didn't help, either. But basically, inadequate maternal weight gain is one of the reasons why infants can be born underweight.

…a small cart that had a transparent, plastic hood placed over top of it – I tried to describe an incubator as best I could from the POV of someone like Susan who has little to no medical knowledge. That said, children with a low birth weight are particularly susceptible to heat loss immediately after they're born, and temperature control is crucial to their survival. If the infant is being moved a short distance, then wrapping him or her in warm blankets and putting a hat on the child's head is usually enough, but for long distances, the kid should be put in an incubator as well. I figured that the nurse would keep Jonny in an incubator because she would assume that, once she saw her baby, Susan would drink a metaphorical can of Instant Mom and suddenly never want her child to leave her sight. Wishful thinking.

RDS – stands for respiratory distress syndrome and it usually occurs in kids born prematurely. These children lack a protein called surfactant that keeps small air sacs in their lungs from collapsing.

IVH – stands for intraventricular hemorrhage and is basically when bleeding occurs in the brain within the first three days after the infant is born. But, from what I've read, it isn't incredibly common and it's usually diagnosed before the child is born using an ultrasound.

PDA – stands for patent ductus anteriosus and is a heart problem that occurs in premature or underweight babies. Before birth, a large artery (the ductus arteriosus) allows the blood to bypass the baby's nonfunctioning lungs. Normally, the ductus closes after birth in order for blood to travel to the lungs and pick up oxygen, but if it doesn't close properly, it can lead to heart failure. But fortunately, like IVH, this problem can usually be diagnosed in time via ultrasound.

…like the rabbit – just to clarify, I don't picture a realistic-looking stuffed rabbit, but actually something more like the drug smuggling bunnies in _Batman Begins_. Why a rabbit, I'm not entirely sure. It could have been because little Jonny reminds me of a rabbit because they're both quiet and skittish (and adorable). Or because I didn't want to give him something traditional like a teddy bear, but I didn't want to give him something weird like a platypus or a hedgehog or an aardvark (to me, a weird stuffed animal collection is something little Harley would have; okay, so I have a hedgehog and a platypus too, but that's beside the point). Or it could have been because I thought that the image of little Jonathan clutching a stuffed bunny was just plain cute.

She didn't like it when he called her 'Mommy' – I think that Susan would be incredibly sensitive about being referred to by any matronly title, but I imagine her hating being called 'Mommy' more than anything else. It has this innocent, childlike quality to it that Susan is obviously trying to beat (literally and figuratively) out of her child. And I think that she would see 'Mother' as being a colder, more distant name as opposed to the warmer, more familiar 'Mommy.'

Mother always told him that he asked too many questions… – you know, given that the formative years of his childhood (which is when personality develops) were spent around two abusive, closed-minded people who despised learning, it's amazing that Jonathan wound up with a genius IQ. Even if you're going by his upbringing in _Scarecrow: Year One_ and not the one I gave him, that's still pretty impressive. And on top of that, he grew up in a small town where people only go to school because they have to (and this is speaking from personal experience, sadly, though it _has _progressed a little bit as more and more people realize that they pretty much need a college education if they want to do anything—that, and college is just flippin' sweet, but I digress). Granted, Jonathan, like most children, is naturally curious about everything, but, from what I've gathered, many kids tend to grow out of that as they get older, especially if authorities figures like their parents try to deter them from asking questions, which is what Susan does with her son. My theory is that Jonny was always smart; he gets it from his dad, who we know must be an intelligent individual if he was able to come from nothing and still get into college and earn a free ride, on top of that. And Jonathan was able to maintain his intellect, in spite of his surroundings, because he wasn't given a lot of outside stimuli—he wasn't allowed to play with the other kids, they didn't want to play with them once he started school, and his playthings mainly consisted of books, which he retreated to whenever he was bored or lonely. Conclusion? Jonathan is smarter than a fifth grader, smarter than the average bear, and definitely smarter than his mother and probably his dad, too.

…he wondered just what made everyone so sure about God – religion is always a touchy subject, and I hope that this didn't offend anyone. I wanted to write about a child's views on God and be realistic about it, so I think that, even though no one has ever told him otherwise, Jonathan would question God, especially given his upbringing and the fact that he's already rather bright and logical (not saying that those who are religious are unintelligent, just that Jonathan has a very 'have to see it to believe it, where is the evidence to support this?' kind of mindset).

Rorschach test – better known as the inkblot test. I understand their purpose, but that doesn't make me resent these tests any less. To me they're like modern art/poetry or most forms of interpretive dance—I really want to understand what's going on, but I usually can't get a damn thing out of them, which has always made me doubt how imaginative I am. Then a friend pointed out that most realists don't get that kind of stuff (and that most of the people who say that they get it are lying :-P), but that doesn't make them any less creative. Long story short, being the logical person that he is, I don't think that Jonny would be able to see anything except inkblots either, even as a little kid.

…her 'good Catholic daughter gallivanting with that…Jew…' – this isn't meant to imply that all Catholics hate Jews, nor do I mean to criticize Catholicism in any way (several of my closest friends are Catholic). Jonny's grandmother is just an evil old woman who had the word of God beaten into her as a child (probably quite literally) and who has no desire to further her education or try new things.

…or that he got sick all the time – not always but in some cases where children are born underweight, they're more susceptible to illnesses later in life. Of course, the fact that Jonathan's mother and grandmother don't take very good care of him doesn't really help.

"I want my rabbit…" – I decided that, unlike most kids and their stuffed toys, Jonathan doesn't have a name for his bunny mainly because I can't see him doing that. I think that it might not occur to him since he didn't have a regular upbringing and also that, even when he was very young, he would've thought that it was a little silly to be calling an inanimate object by a name.

**Disclaimer: **For this chapter, I only own Susan, her evil mother—aka, Jonathan's grandmother—and Mr. Nathan Shapiro. And I'm beginning to give up hope on owning any OCs that are actually nice, decent people.


	7. Dumb Blonde

**Chapter VII**

_**The Dumb Blonde**_

"And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust."

—from T. S. Elliot's "The Waste Land"

* * *

**Note****:** First off, I want to apologize profusely for taking forever to reply to all of the lovely reviews that you guys gave the last chapter. Between work, writing, and getting ready to go back to school, finding any spare time has been rather difficult, although that's still no excuse for how long I've taken to get back to all of you. Not to mention the fact that I'm way behind in my reading, as well—although I plan to amend that tonight, hopefully.

That said, I've been looking forward to writing this chapter for a while, now, as it involves our protagonists taking a step toward that twisted friendship of theirs. I just hope that it isn't too rushed. Or that it seems out of place, as this is what could be described as the only 'nice' chapter in the entire story. Also, with the way it's set up, it's almost like the first scene is divided into two separate scenes, and the first one is my favorite; hopefully you'll see why. :-)

* * *

Nearly two months had passed since Dr. Quinzel's first session with Allan Breedlove, and still he couldn't quite believe that that inexperienced little waif had managed to last a full hour with the infamous murderer, walk away unscathed, and, on top of that, cause the man acute respiratory distress. Truthfully, at first he _hadn't_ believed it, telling himself that Lyle Bolton must have been mistaken, that the guard had heard incorrectly, had seen the wrong thing…because, if he were to be honest with himself, he didn't want the girl who had gotten the patient that should have been _his_ to have actually succeeded at breaking said patient. Especially not when that girl was so impractical and unorganized and flirtatious, with all of her silly pleasantries, her occasional quirkiness, and that damned smile. The small quirks were bad enough, but the smile was, by far, the worst. Just what did she have to be so damn happy about? And why was she always smiling at _him?_ It wasn't even a forced, phony smile either (and he could always spot those); it was real. Nice. Genuine. Sincere.

And unnerving. And there was something else about it—the unnamable look in her eyes whenever she smiled, like she had a secret, like she knew something about him. Though what it could be, he hadn't the faintest idea. It wasn't as if she could have actually found any incriminating evidence or even humiliating stories from his childhood. Damn it, why in the hell did she keep smiling at him?

_Oh. Right. She thinks I'm 'funny,_' he scoffed silently. If _that _remark hadn't been an indication of the girl's stupidity…

He shook his head at the thought, remembering how it had becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself of Dr. Quinzel's incompetence when the rest of Arkham's staff had started buzzing with rumors about what she had done to Breedlove. It had eventually gotten to the point where he hadn't been able to ignore the gossip or quell his own curiosity, and had decided to see for himself if what everyone was saying was true.

Of course, it wasn't as easy as walking up to one of his colleagues or, God forbid, Quinzel herself, and simply asking—he would never deign to let anyone know that he was interested in another psychiatrist's methods. It was embarrassing enough just admitting it to himself.

One good thing about having an alliance with the head of security at Arkham was that he was able to gain access to the surveillance cameras with little to no trouble. There was little chance that he would get caught performing his experiments, since he had had Bolton put the video feed on a continuous loop for the rooms that he tested his latest compounds in (all located in the asylum's lower levels where, as it was, hardly anyone ever went). He had also explained to Bolton that he sometimes needed to watch the recordings of his patients to see if he had missed anything during their actual sessions. It wasn't even a complete lie—in fact, more often than not, it was the truth. Other times, he actually wanted his experiments to be recorded in order to further evaluate the test subjects' reactions to his toxins—these tapes were all kept at his apartment and copies were never made. Whatever the case might have been, Bolton never questioned him—and, more importantly, never told anyone else.

So when, about a week or so after Quinzel's first session with Breedlove, curiosity had finally gotten the best of him and he had informed Bolton that he needed access to Arkham's security footage. The guard hadn't uttered a single word, merely stepped aside and granted him entrance to the surveillance room.

Of course, he hadn't dared watched Quinzel's tapes at the asylum and risk being caught. Instead, he had made copies to view in the privacy of his apartment.

The Scarecrow was furious, but even the voice couldn't deny it—and though he was loath to admit it even to himself, what he had seen was…intriguing, to say the least.

The session started off traditionally.

"_Hello, Mr. Breedlove. I'm Dr. Quinzel._"

"_Not 'the Worm,' dearie? It's what everyone else calls me._"

Though he still couldn't believe that Quinzel had been foolish enough to have worn such an outfit: those kitten heels with the tiny plaid print, along with a knee-length, black pencil skirt and a teal silk, puff sleeve blouse that didn't button up, but had a collar made of two long pieces of material that were tied in an elegant bow at the side of her throat. Not incredibly provocative (though the Scarecrow had thought otherwise), but, when worn with her glasses, all the girl would have needed to do was pull her hair up and her look would have been bordering on 'naughty secretary,' an image that he had always found to be rather silly and pointless as secretaries were supposed to be _functional_, and they couldn't very well do that if they were focused on making themselves look appealing to their employers.

In any case, he had thought that Quinzel had worn the outfit on purpose in order to provoke a reaction out of Breedlove. That is, before he quickly dismissed the notion on the grounds that the girl didn't have that much sense. Besides, she always dressed that way.

"_I much prefer the title that the media gave me._"

From his tone, it was clear that Breedlove had wanted his doctor to say his name for him—most likely to show off how widely known he was for his merciless slayings. And yet Quinzel hadn't taken the bait. Interesting.

When she clicked her pen, he had noticed Breedlove's telltale wince right away, but he hadn't been certain if Quinzel had picked up on it, too. Of course, it wasn't long before he realized that she had, even if the first time had been unintentional, which he was sure that it was. No one was _that _intuitive, and especially not her.

"_You know, pet, most people don't like it when I describe my work. It makes them un_com_fortable._"

"_I don't mind._"

He had shaken his head at this. It was almost comical, how determined she was to not be afraid, to act like she was on the psychopathic serial killer's side, as if the thought of hanging a woman by her breasts didn't frighten her in the least. Though he would admit that, to the untrained eye, she would have appeared sincere. Had he not been convinced that it was all a ruse, he might have believed it himself.

"_Shouldn't you discourage me from such behavior?_"

"_It's advised, but there's no written rule stating that I should_."

Well, _that _was certainly intriguing. But was Quinzel truly so flexible in her morals, or had that statement simply been another attempt at becoming Breedlove's 'friend?' The Scarecrow had mocked the small part of him that had found the former notion almost refreshing.

As he continued to view the tape, however, he grew more and more confident that it _was_ the former. Especially after Quinzel got Breedlove on the subject of Sally Jenkins, and then made such a deliberate move—_no _moral psychiatrist would have appealed to their patient's fetish, not even to obtain answers. And yet he had sat and watched as she consciously dangled her foot for Breedlove's attention.

"_Did your mother ever take you anywhere in public?_"

"_No._"

"_Why was that? Why didn't your mother ever take you anywhere?_ _Did you act up in public? Were you an out-of-control, disobedient child? Or did she think that you were an embarrassment? A mistake? Was that it? Was she ashamed to be seen with you?_"

He had watched as she, seemingly unafraid, continued to antagonize Breedlove, a man who was proud to have butchered twenty-four women. It was as if, in her quest for answers, she refused to be intimidated by him. Instead, she pushed him close to his limit, dodging his attempts at manipulation and taunting him with that irritating pen. But was she clever or was she reckless? Did she know how elicit answers without endangering herself?

For a moment, it had looked as though she didn't. As if, too caught up in firing questions at Breedlove, she had been caught off guard when her patient began making vulgar implications about her relationship with her father. Yet while Quinzel's tearful confession had been interesting (not to mention amusing) to watch, he had found Breedlove's accusation even more riveting. The man excelled at manipulation, to be sure, but still. Breedlove was curiously…passionate…about it.

But then he had noticed that Quinzel was still clicking her pen. Which was bizarre, for, if she had been truly distraught, that was certainly the last thing she would have done. Which meant that… The next thing he knew, Quinzel had turned everything around on Breedlove, her voice shaken but full of conviction as her patient became increasingly anxious.

"_Pretty, girly little thing can't make Mother happy, but Daddy doesn't mind—_"

"_Shut up—_"

"_Daddy's happy to play with his pretty little girl, Daddy wants to bend her over and lift up her dress and rip off her lacey, white panties, grip her long, golden hair as he slams himself into her again and again every time her fucking whore of a mother goes out shopping to fill her closet with more of those beautiful, Goddamn shoes—_"

The slap hadn't startled him—after all, he had seen Breedlove leap across the table and raise his hand. He didn't jump or flinch at the sight or the sound of it, and he hardly felt bad for the girl when she had brought it on herself. He (and the Scarecrow especially) had been eager for her to start to cry, to shrink away, to tremble with the horrifying realization that she was in over her head, that this was, in fact, a _very _dangerous man standing before her, one who could kill her without a second thought. Granted, the sickening _crack!_ of palm hitting cheek had brought back a slew of unwanted memories, but he had quickly pushed them aside, too anxious for Quinzel's inevitable breakdown.

"_You're going to _scream_ for me, pet—_"

It never came.

"_No, Mr. Breedlove, I don't think I'll be doing that_."

If he had been even slightly comfortable with allowing his dignity to slip, he would have stared at the screen, slack jawed and dumbfounded like some backwoods hick. But as it was, he had instead knit his brows in irritated confusion and tried to figure out just what Quinzel was playing at. Of course, she _had _done the right thing—men like Breedlove fed off of a person's reaction, lived for it, even. By showing no emotion, the girl had further angered her patient, but she had also surprised him. As the session progressed, he had watched as Breedlove quickly realized that he was no longer in control of the situation—this absurdly young, clearly breakable little girl was.

"_Are you scared?_"

It aggravated him that he didn't know what Quinzel's response had been—she had whispered it to Breedlove, too softly for the camera's microphones to pick it up. True, he had a fairly good idea as to what she had said (Breedlove's enraged reaction had been a strong indication), but he had wanted to hear it for himself, wanted to assess her tone and pitch to see if she was lying.

_**She **_**has **_**to be—everyone fears something!**_ _**Everyone has a weakness! **_the Scarecrow had fumed.

_Of course everyone does_, he had snapped. _But perhaps Allan Breedlove simply isn't _hers.

He had turned his thoughts back to the action on the screen, watching as a furious Breedlove wrapped a hand around Quinzel's neck and lifted her out of the chair, moving his stolen pen from her eye to her throat.

"_I will _make_ you scream—_"

"_No, you won't._"

No, he had realized at the same time as Breedlove. He wouldn't. And that was what had driven the man over the edge and caused his asthma attack. It didn't matter that Breedlove hadn't suffered one in years—more studies were suggesting that psychological stress could trigger asthmatic reactions, and he strongly believed in the mind's power over the body.

"_Mr. Breedlove, the first step to solving a problem is admitting that you have one in the first place. And I definitely think that your control issues are something that we need to work on._"

The nerve of that girl—such calm, collected apathy—she sounded like a schoolteacher lecturing an errant student, for God's sake. Though there was just a hint of it in her voice, it was clear that she was as amused by Breedlove's pitiful, shivering state as he—well, no, he couldn't say that he had been amused by it. All right, he _could_, but it would have been better if it had been _him _in that room instead of Quinzel. She…messed around too much, wasting time trying to earn her patient's trust before realizing that it was a lost cause and that the direct approach was the _best_ approach.

_Well,_ he mused now as he headed toward Daniel Wallace's cell, _maybe she'll learn from that and know better for next time. She _did _say that she tries to learn as much as she can._

_**You didn't actually **_**believe **_**that little trollop, did you?**_ the Scarecrow sneered. _**Fool. You're getting hopeful of this one and giving her too much credit. She only said that to earn your favor.**_

_I'm not, but what about the unlikely event that she was being sincere? She's hardly a threat, and it would be refreshing to know another psychiatrist who wasn't completely incompetent and obsessed with peoples' feelings._

_**Not a threat? You've seen those tapes—that simpering tart is crafty.**_

_Yes, but she _likes_ me, remember? She thinks I'm 'funny,'_ he replied sarcastically. _Besides, she fears _something_, and you want to know what it is as much as I do. I can't risk using one of the toxins on her, but getting to know her better might be an option. _

**Do not**_** let this one in**_, the voice warned. _**You know that no one can be trusted, especially women like that. Remember Sherry—**_

_Of course remember,_ he snapped. _And you're to keep quiet while I'm at work._

Muttering darkly about positions of power and manipulative strumpets, the Scarecrow grew silent.

"He's in a lousy mood t'day, doc," Bolton informed him as he strode up to Wallace's door.

Inwardly, he smirked. All the more reason to try out his latest compound: a toxin meant to instill fear by evoking a person's most traumatic memories.

"Thank you, Mr. Bolton," he said out loud. "I should be able to handle it, but if I require your assistance…"

"I'll be right here," the guard assured him with a baleful grin.

With a final nod to Bolton, he swiftly pushed open the door and entered Wallace's cell. The young man in question sat on his cot, in the corner farthest away from the door with his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. Having spent the last two months either in a straightjacket or in solitary confinement, the already skinny boy had grown even skinnier, his wrists and neck rubbed red from pulling at his restraints, bony arms spotted with bruises from the guards. His once vivid green eyes had become dull and glassy with dark circles painted beneath them. Still, Wallace managed to throw a furious glare in his direction.

"Good morning, Daniel."

"Fuck you," the boy spat venomously.

He sighed as if disappointed, when in reality he was anything but.

"I had hoped that by now you would have overcome your aggression toward me. You know that I'm only trying to help."

Wallace snorted. "You call this _help?_ Look at what you've done to me!" He held up his raw, scabbed wrists. "What kind of fucked up help is that?"

He smiled amiably, placing his leather briefcase on the metal table.

"I couldn't agree with you more." There were two simultaneous _clicks_ as he unsnapped the silver clasps on his briefcase. "The treatments you've undergone so far appear to be having no effect, which is why…" He lifted the lid. "…we're going to try something _new_."

Catching Wallace's look of wary confusion and smiling faintly, he held up a small bottle of cloudy white liquid and hypodermic needle. The boy paled.

"What's that?"

"This?" he asked, his tone bordering on innocent as he glanced at the bottle. "It's the latest advancement in the field of psychology."

"More antipsychotics?" Wallace sneered, a distasteful look on his face.

"No, not quite. _Real _trauma, you see, begins in our youth—and you're clearly a troubled individual, Daniel. However, since you seem unwilling to cooperate, I'm going to have to find the root of your problem myself. With this." He shook the little bottle, making its milky contents swirl.

"Why can't you just ask my parents?"

"We've talked about this, remember? Your mother and father don't want to be bothered with problems concerning _you_."

Wallace fell silent and looked away, biting his lip.

"Now," he began, inserting the needle into the top of the bottle and slowly filling the syringe, "I want you to try and relax. The only physical pain you're going to feel is when I give you the injection."

"What d'you mean 'physical?'" the boy demanded. "Is that shit gonna fuck with my head?"

"All it's going to do is help you remember your past traumas in vivid detail."

"So, what, it'll make me relive something horrible in my life? Is that it?"

It was such a shame. He felt like a disappointed teacher thinking it, but Wallace really was an intelligent boy, if only he would _apply _himself…

"In a sense," he replied, stepping around the table and calmly approaching his agitated patient. "But, really, you have nothing to be afraid of—"

"I'm not afraid," Wallace insisted, pressing himself against the wall, eyes going wide. "I just don't want that _shit _going in my body. I'll tell you what you wanna know—"

"This will help me get a more realistic sense of what has happened to you, Daniel," he explained. "Besides, I don't want you to tell me what you _think _I want to hear because you feel you're under pressure—"

"I don't!" Wallace exclaimed, trying to get as far away as he could. "I'll tell you the truth, I swear! Just don't put that stuff in me!"

He shook his head.

"You're increasing paranoia worries me, Daniel. Do I have to bring in Mr. Bolton, or are you going to let me administer the solution without hassle?"

The look of terror on the boy's face at the mere mention of the merciless guard couldn't have been more perfect. It was almost enough to satisfy both himself and the Scarecrow. Almost. But even if it had been, he still had an experiment to conduct.

Lips pursed impatiently, he stared own at Wallace who, after several seconds of hesitation, finally held out his arm. He injected just half of the syringe's contents into the boy's system—waste not, want not; no need to overdo it the first time and send his patient into a panic attack, or worse.

The drug took effect almost immediately.

Mouth agape, Wallace's pupils were dilated as his eyes darted around at some unseen horror. The boy quickly leapt to his feet, rail thin form shaking with fear and tension, fists raised, ready to take a swing at anything that approached him.

"D-don't, don't come near me! Don't move!" Wallace half-shouted, though his voice was tight and squeaky, hardly threatening. "I-I mean it, I swear, you'll regret it! I'll put your fucking lights out! _Don't come any closer!_"

Fascinated, he silently went to put the syringe away, but the movement, however slow it might have been, caught Wallace's attention and sent the boy over the edge.

"I said _don't move!_" his patient shrieked, chest heaving rapidly.

He stopped at once, regarding Wallace carefully.

The boy shook his head. "You think you can do whatever you want, don't you? Because you're Troy fucking _Edwards_—you're the star quarterback and your dad can buy you whatever you want because of his fucking pretzel business. You can do whatever the hell you want to me because you'll _get away_ with it—_don't touch me, you son of a bitch!_" Wallace flailed and cowered, bringing his arms up to shield his face.

At once, he picked up on the name 'Troy Edwards' and remembered that he was one of the students that Wallace had killed. That must have been who the boy was seeing him as, mistaking him for a tall, muscular football player—an amusing notion, had it not been so absurd.

"Push me down and steal my lunch all through elementary school, run over my bike with your fucking BMW, make everyone in school think I'm _psycho_, hang me from the goal post in the _middle_ of _winter_, hell…" His patient was laughing now, though there was no humor in the sound and he was trembling all over. "You could probably even get away with _murder_.

"Th-That's what you're gonna do, isn't it? That's why you dragged me out to the middle of nowhere," the boy said, now on his knees, though still in his pitiful fighting stance. "You're gonna fucking _kill_ me. Why? Cuz your sister _likes me?_" He sniffed a little, shaking his head. "She won't listen to anything you say, and you're s-scared that she's gonna end up a freak just like _me_."

Gaze focused on his miserable, quivering patient, he briefly recalled that Alicia Edwards, younger sister of Troy Edwards, had been killed as well. Obviously, the girl had taken a liking to Wallace and her disapproving, thickheaded jock of a brother had tried to beat and threaten the boy into staying away from her. Interesting. He had half a mind to look into the football player's mental state to see if he had a history of aggression or paranoia, but had no doubt that the grieving parents would make that rather difficult…

Absorbed in his musings about Troy Edwards, he barely caught the end of Wallace's hysterical cry of "You _fucking_ bastard, _I'll kill you!_" before the boy came crashing into him, tackling him at the knees, knocking them both to the floor.

The syringe slipped from his grasp and rolled under the table. Wallace dove for it.

It happened in a matter of seconds.

Later, he would curse his physical weakness and curse himself for being so careless to begin with, but in that moment there was no time to think or even act, though everything felt as if it was happening in slow motion. Thrown on his back, he saw the needle hit the floor with a clatter, and Wallace pounce on it, bony fingers curling around the plastic syringe, which was still half full of foggy, white toxin. He had barely begun to sit up when Wallace was on him again, sinking the needle into his shoulder and pushing down hard on the plunger.

_This isn't real. This isn't real_, he began to tell himself at once, shoving the cackling Wallace off of him. Already, the drug was beginning to take effect. The images before him were growing fuzzy and his heart was racing.

"Having fun yet, doc?" he heard Wallace jeer, though it sounded as if he was under water. Still, his mind was clear enough to register that the boy had called him 'doc,' which meant that the solution had begun to wear off.

_It'll only be a few minutes, and it isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real._

The antidote was in his briefcase. The _antidote _was _in _his _briefcase_. He took that fact and tried to focus solely on it, rising on shaking legs and stumbling toward the table, which was no longer metal, but long and made of dark wood. A dinning room table.

_Oh God… Not that place… _No. _I'm not there. This isn't real. I am _Doctor _Jonathan Crane, I'm in room 304, on the third floor of Arkham Asylum, and this is _not real. _This isn't real, this isn't real…_

He blinked and the wall color changed from white to teal, but he could make out Wallace—and it _was _Wallace, not the person he dreaded seeing—watching him and laughing, but the boy didn't seem capable of doing much else. He was curled up on his cot, the drug having severely weakened him.

But suddenly, Wallace evaporated—the boy, the cot, the entire scene vanished before his eyes, replaced by _three battered chairs that matched the table; behind them, pushed against the wall, a hutch that held what remained of an old and chipped set of china; and above him_ the fluorescent ceiling light had been swapped for _a filthy, dimly lit chandelier made of crystal._

The antidote. The antidote was in his briefcase. In his briefcase on the table. The table. He had to get to the table. This wasn't real. This wasn't happening. He had to get to the table.

But when he dropped into the seat, his briefcase disappeared. In its stead was _a plate, one of the china plates from the hutch, white with a pretty rose pattern around the edge._

He tried not to think about what was on the plate; he shouldn't have even been thinking about the pink flower pattern, but that was what his gaze was fixed on. The antidote. He had to focus on the antidote. It was in his briefcase. The antidote was in his briefcase. But his briefcase wasn't there, it had disappeared, and in his confusion he had broken his concentration and looked down at the plate.

This wasn't real. This wasn't real.

It was proof of how well he could combat the drug when the meal on the plate didn't take the shape of whatever it had actually been at the time of the memory. Instead, just like in his nightmares, it took the form of a steak. _A huge, thick slab of steak, barely cooked and oozing, bright red in the middle._ But that was how he knew it was an illusion: At the time, he had been too young to remember what it actually was, but he knew that they had never been able to afford steak. This wasn't real. This wasn't real, this wasn't real.

The antidote. He had to get to the antido—but the Fear was creeping out from the dark recesses of his mind, holding him in a crushing grip—this wasn't real thiswasn'trealthiswasn'treal—there was movement on his right, and he knew that it was her.

No! It wasn't her, she was dead—this wasn't real this wasn't real…

"_Enough of your nonsense, boy. You're going to finish that steak, and I don't want to hear another word about it."_

"_But I don't like it, Grandmother. It tastes bad and there's red stuff—"_

That wasn't him. It was once, but not now. He wasn't six years old anymore, he was twenty-five, sitting in room 304, on the third floor of Arkham Asylum, and this wasn't real this wasn't real—

"_Either you finish that steak or you'll spend the rest of the week in the root cellar, do I make myself clear?"_

"_Yes, ma'am…"_ _was his meek, whispered response._

_He dropped his gaze to the thick, bloody steak _that wasn't real.

The drug seemed to speed up time. Or maybe the dinner had been such a long and agonizing ordeal because he had been a child. He didn't know. He merely blinked and _the massive steak was halfway gone. By then, he knew that he couldn't eat any more of it. He had had enough._

_For the longest time, he could remember feeling a gnawing ache inside of him, though whether it was from hunger or loneliness, he wasn't sure. But this was different. He knew what it was from books and from some of the times when his classmates had been sent to the nurse, but he couldn't remember ever feeling like this before. He felt funny, like his stomach was too small but being tightly stretched. It hurt._

_Very slowly, he set his fork down and wrapped his arms around his waist._

_His grandmother saw the action at once. She wasn't pleased._

"_Jonathan, I thought I told you to finish that steak."_

"_But Grandmother, I feel so full already," he began, his voice a soft whine. "I-I think I ate too much. It's giving me a __tummy ache."_

_His grandmother slammed her own fork down on the table and narrowed her eyes at him._

"_What have I told you about using such childish language?" she demanded icily. "I paid good money for that steak, and just because you don't like the way it tastes, you expect me to throw it away? Selfish, wasteful, ungrateful little brat… I'll have no more of this disobedience. I want you to clean your plate, and that's the end of it."_

_He promptly shut his mouth, knowing that arguing would only make things worse, and stared miserably at his plate. Maybe, it wouldn't be so bad if he ate quickly? Then dinner would be over and he could spend the rest of the evening hiding in his room._

No, he wouldn't do that. He wasn't sick. This wasn't real. In his head, it was in his head. He could still hear Wallace in the distance, laughing and making scornful remarks, and for one second a pair of pair of mocking green eyes hovered in front of him before vanishing again.

He shut his eyes, took a deep breath—this wasn't real—and another breath, trying to clear his head. Antidote. Briefcase. Table. This wasn't real. He had to get to the antidote. It was in his briefcase, which was not a plate. When he opened his eyes and looked at his briefcase, he would not see _a plate, empty, save for a drizzle of redish-pink residue._

_Eating quickly had not been a good idea. Now he felt worse than before, and the heavy, metallic scent of blood made him queasy. It didn't help that, in between bites, he had taken long sips of water to try and get rid of the awful taste in his mouth. He wished that he hadn't. It felt like his stomach was full of sloshing liquid, and it made him think of the time when Bo Griggs and his friends had thrown water balloons at him. It made him wonder if it had hurt when they burst, and he shuddered, hoping that that wouldn't happen to him._

_He wanted to throw up, but he didn't want to move; it hurt too much. But if he didn't leave soon, that disgusting meat was going to come back up and land on the dinning room rug. He didn't even want to imagine what his grandmother might do to him then. Very slowly, he sat up and pushed his chair away from the table._

"_I want you to go upstairs, take a bath—you'd better not waste any water—and go straight to bed. After the fuss you put up, don't even think you're getting dessert," Grandmother snapped as she cleared the table._

_His stomach lurched. He felt ill, pressing a hand to his mouth to keep from retching right then and there. With a meek nod of understanding to his grandmother, he tried to exit the room quickly while walking as slowly as he could. He wanted to leave, he wanted to race up the stairs and stay in bed forever, he wanted someone to hold him until he felt better—he wanted all of that to happen_, but knew that none of it ever would,_ and moving too fast seemed like a bad idea._

_As he slowly crossed the room, he kept telling himself that if he could just make it to the bathroom, he could throw up, and everything would be all right. He could even turn the sink on so that Grandmother wouldn't hear him. Then he could climb into bed and stay there, wrapped in the blankets, with his toy rabbit pressed against his belly. He would feel better, then…he was sure of it…_

Except that he wouldn't because this wasn't real. He knew how this memory ended, and he refused to suffer through it again. He narrowed his eyes, sights firmly locked on his briefcase. This wasn't real this wasn't real this wasn't real… Focusing his thoughts, he reached out to grab _the knob, one hand still holding his belly as he opened the door, when Grandmother grabbed him by his upper arm and whirled him around, the sudden movement making his guts churn horribly._

"_I want you in bed and asleep, boy," his grandmother commanded. "Lights out, no reading. Do you understand me?"_

_He opened his mouth, but couldn't speak. He could barely offer a silent prayer of "Please God, please don't let me—"_

_Before he threw up all over the dinning room rug._

No! No, it wouldn't happen, it wasn't happening because this wasn't real. He would not be that pitiful, frightened child who begged and pleaded with a heartless guardian. That was no longer who he was—he had overcome all of that years ago and he would not let it affect him now, even as _her claws sank into his scalp, twisting in his hair as she jerked his head back and shouted at him._

"_You disgusting little beast! Look at what you've done!"_

He gritted his teeth and wrenched himself away from the evil witch who wasn't there, falling backward onto the floor.

In the distance, someone laughed.

"What's the matter, Dr. Crane? See something you didn't like?"

Wallace. The boy's whiney voice combined with the pain from the fall gave him enough clarity to see the world as it truly was for one second. In that brief moment, he lunged forward and seized his briefcase, tearing through it until he found the antidote.

He wasted no time, ripping the cap off with his teeth and jabbing the needle into his thigh.

Almost at once, his vision (and his mind) began to clear. The dinning room slowly turned back into the bleak, white cell of Arkham Asylum with padded walls, a metal table instead of a wooden one, and a pleased-looking Daniel Wallace sitting up on his cot.

"You back?" the boy asked. His tone was smug and victorious, his expression curious, but his eyes betrayed the worry that was creeping into his system as he undoubtedly realized what a grievous error he had made in poisoning his psychiatrist.

He fixed Wallace with a glare of pure malice and the boy paled.

"You will tell me everything that just transpired," he said quietly. "_Now_."

Wallace's eyes darted, though he tried to maintain an air of nonchalance.

"Why? Scared I've got something on ya?"

"Don't play games with me, Wallace," he hissed, slowly rising to his feet. At 5'6, he lacked the tall, intimidated form that he would have liked, but he still seemed to loom over the crouching boy nonetheless.

Trying to hide the fact that he was leaning away, Wallace attempted a sneer.

"What happened to using my first name and trying to be all buddy-buddy with me?"

"What you did was very wrong, Mr. Wallace. I need to see that appropriate action is taken."

"You gonna call my parents?" the boy snorted.

He didn't even bother to remind Wallace that his parents didn't care about him, too busy rifling through his briefcase until he found what he was looking for.

"No," he replied, his voice hard with a new threatening edge as he allowed his darkness to take over. "I want to show you something."

His patient raised an eyebrow.

"What?" he demanded, though his lips grew thin with worry. Still, Wallace looked more bewildered than afraid when he looked down and saw that his doctor was holding a bunch of burlap.

He slipped on his mask.

"What the fuck—"

The Scarecrow plunged a needle into the boy's neck.

* * *

"Harley." It wasn't a greeting or a question. It was a statement. "Joining us for lunch today?"

"Oh, um…no, Ruth, sorry. Just grabbing my water," she replied as she pulled open the refrigerator door.

"Oh," was the other psychiatrist's reply, accompanied by what she called a short, snooty bounce of her eyebrows. It was Dr. Ruth Adams's silent way of saying, "Gee, Harls, are you starving yourself or what?" Maybe not quite like that, but something along those lines. The silent accusation irked her slightly—after all, it wasn't as if she ever saw Dr. Crane in the employees' lounge. Then again, since she was rarely there, that might have been why she never saw him.

Although it was probably unfair of her to think that about Ruth. The other doctor might have truly been worried about her eating habits or maybe Ruth simply enjoyed her company and wished that she would come around the doctor's lounge more often. But that didn't mean that she could rule out the possibility that the woman harbored at least some resentment for her. It wasn't arrogance as much as it was her dad's influence. He had often told both her and her sister that the world would treat them unfairly because of their looks. A man would give her a job if he wanted to bang her, and a woman would lie to her out of jealousy. She couldn't distrust _every_one, but she couldn't be naïve, either. Despite being rather pretty herself, her tone of voice suggested that Ruth probably didn't like her. And for all her years spent studying the human mind, she had never understood why attractive women didn't like other attractive women, but she chalked it up to her being attracted to both sexes, and left it at that.

As for not eating lunch… True, there had been a time back in high school when it had felt like her life was in such disarray that she might have been _kind _of anorexic, but she wouldn't have called it that, and anyway, she had overcome it. For the most part. Now, skipping meals was a result of either forgetting to eat or not having time to, and during those instances when could spare a moment and did remember to eat, she usually wasn't hungry.

And on the off chance that she had been hungry that day, one look at the refrigerator's pitiful contents would have made her lose her appetite. A bunch of withered grapes, two pint-sized cartons of iced tea (one already opened), a few gooey looking sandwiches all bound in plastic wrap, three or four packets of ranch dressing (pilfered from a fast food joint, no doubt), several bottles of water and soda, and a half-eaten hoagie. The fact that, a few feet behind her, Dr. Strange was seated at the table, eating what looked to be blood sausage didn't help.

_Even though he's German and I'm pretty sure blood sausage is French…_

Shrugging it off, she ducked inside the 'fridge to retrieve what she came for (a bottle of Fiji water with 'Dr. Quinzel' printed on the side in Sharpie), straightening up to watch what appeared to be the mating rituals of psychiatrists—Dr. Ruth flirting rather openly with Dr. Cavendish, who gladly welcomed her advances despite being a married man.

Normally, she didn't mind Ruth. The woman was civil enough, if a bit snippy, and every so often, they would even have a shared opinion, though for the most part she regarded Ruth's psychiatric methods as being…well…they weren't very well thought out. The woman's intentions were good, but it was obvious that Ruth hadn't been thinking when she'd decided to put her OCD patient in a cell with a sink (the man had washed his hands obsessively until finally being taken to the infirmary for dermatitis treatment).

Then, there were times like this when she didn't care for Ruth Adams in the least—not that she herself was a saint, but willingly becoming an adulteress was low, even in her opinion. And from what she had gathered, Cavendish's wife was quite sweet; it was unfortunate that the woman was married to such a sleazebag. Cavendish himself wasn't one of her favorite people—he enjoyed flaunting his superiority entirely too much and at times, his behavior made her speculate that the man might suffer from mild OCD. That, and he also made her wonder if all of the male doctors at Arkham were prone to womanizing—save for Dr. Crane, who she thought might be afraid of girls—or if it was a trait only associated with Cavendish and Gooding.

Of course, Dr. Strange wasn't like that. He was just…unsettling…in his voice, his mannerisms, and especially his eyes. There wasn't anything particularly disturbing about their shape or color, like there was with Allan Breedlove's piercing gray orbs, but there was something in the way he looked at a person. It was as if he knew some deep, private secret about her and was biding his time, holding it over her head until the moment came when he could either use it to blackmail her or reveal it to the world. His thick German accent and slow, calculating tone only fueled her suspicion that he was plotting something. That, and the man was completely infatuated with hypnotherapy, an area of psychiatry that she had always found to be rather unreliable and, ultimately, pointless (at least, when it came to the psychopaths that they worked with). Not to mention the fact that, if she were to ever undergo hypnosis, she would willingly be putting herself in an incredibly vulnerable position—and there was no telling what the hypnotist would ask of her (or what he himself would do _to _her), especially if it was Dr. Strange. It was something that had disturbed her ever since her mother, the lawyer, had taken on a client who was suing her dentist for sexual harassment after a surveillance camera had revealed that the man had molested and violated his patient after giving her anesthesia for a root canal.

Suppressing the urge to wrinkle her nose at the sight of Strange savoring his blood sausage as a crimson rivulet rolled down his chin, she headed for the door and was just about to crack open her Fiji water when the most unexpected thing happened:

Wide-eyed and shaky, looking uncharacteristically disheveled, Dr. Crane stumbled into the employees' lounge.

* * *

Making Daniel Wallace scream until the boy had been reduced to a pathetic, sniveling wreck had brought on an overwhelming sense of euphoria and satisfaction. But for all of his elation, he still felt sick. Even with the antidote, vertigo and nausea were common side effects in most of his toxins, and the memory that his latest compound had brought on certainly did nothing to help settle his stomach.

He could have killed Wallace, and were it not for the threat of parental inquiries, he would have. Instead, he had to be content with hitting Wallace with a fistful of powdered fear toxin and ordering Bolton to drag the boy off to solitary confinement. Still, he had half a mind to schedule the brat for electroconlusive therapy. Granted, his patient's "depression" was hardly severe enough to give cause for such drastic treatment (not to mention, it required informed consent), but Wallace needed to learn exactly what happened when he was crossed.

Still, though… He wanted to kill the boy for making him relive _that_.

His limbs shook and his stomach was roiling and he was furious with himself for not being able to overcome what was all in his mind, but it was easier to direct his anger at Wallace. His patient had, after all, be the one who had caused all of this.

With trembling hands, he reached up to remove his glasses, repulsed by the crippling weakness that he hadn't felt in years and knowing that he should eat even though that was the last thing that he wanted to do at the moment. Although that shouldn't have mattered—he hadn't even had breakfast, as usual—he needed to choke something down or else his condition was going to worsen. As it was, he was already so drained that he felt close to losing consciousness. Gingerly massaging his temples, he sighed wearily, deciding that he should at least stop by the lounge for something to drink—there was always a bottle or two of unopened water that he doubted anyone would miss. And if they did, he would tell them right where to shove their damn Evian—after he was done drinking it.

Of course, Luck had always held a grudge against him, and that day was no different—something that he realized the moment he staggered into the lounge and saw four of his least favorite people: that pretentious ditz, Adams; Cavendish the greasy philanderer; the devious and intrusive Dr. Strange; and that perky little blonde, Quinzel.

Slowly, he closed his eyes, certain that he must have been a sorry sight—hair a mess, damp with sweat and hanging in his eyes; tie loose and glasses off; breathing slow and deliberate; and shaking all over. Yes, what a wonderful way to be seen in front of his despised colleagues. Inhaling deeply, he straightened up and tried to regain as much of his normal composure as he could.

Thankfully, it did not appear as though any of the other doctors were paying much attention to him. Adams and Cavendish were flirting shamelessly, Quinzel was leaning against the counter and examining her nails, and Strange—

_Oh God…_

He barely kept himself from gagging as he watched Strange bite into a large piece of sausage. It was rare—oozing-blood rare—it stained the man's teeth, coating his plate, dripping from his fork, making his lips shiny and wet with it.

Keeping his outward appearance very calm, he strode over to the counter, even managing a brief nod when Adams said "Dr. Crane?" in an astounded tone. He stood in front of the sink, beside Quinzel (who had yet to lose interest in her fingernails) and opened one of the overhanging cupboards under the guise that he was looking for something. In reality, he stared straight ahead at nothing, gripping the counter's edge until his knuckles were white and taking slow, deep breaths that did nothing to calm his nerves.

"I thought you were just getting water, Harley?" he heard Adams' over-girlish voice say.

He was clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth ached.

"Yeah, but I think it might be smarter to go with coffee—y'know, didn't get much sleep."

She was suddenly right beside him, and he nearly jumped—_nearly_—at the sound of her voice. He managed to hide his alarm quite effectively, though he still grew rather tense. She was close, far too close—her arm almost touched him as she reached up to grab the coffee filters.

He turned around quickly—that girl _would not _see him like this—hands still gripping the counter top, and just when he thought that no one had noticed a thing, he locked eyes with Dr. Strange.

The man's face was expressionless, but he could see that the other doctor had detected something, despite his forcibly collected appearance. Strange was a terrible psychiatrist—his only goal was to learn a person's secrets and then use the information against them; he had no respect for the mind, no desire to _understand_—but he was still very perceptive, even if he couldn't figure out just what was wrong. Strange knew that something was off about him.

The older doctor slowly raised another forkful of blood-soaked meat to his lips, but he stared Strange down, determined to conquer this ridiculous bout of panic even though his knees began to shake.

"Doktor Crane," Strange began—his mouth was full, he could _see _it in there, the scent of blood suddenly all around him, his hold on the counter painfully tight—this was high school again, soon they would all be staring and everyone would know, he felt himself slipping…

"I just remembered, you wanted to discuss April Cohen with me, didn't you, Jonathan?"

He blinked. What? A hand was on his arm.

He looked down, then back up, and saw blonde.

Dr. Quinzel cocked her head at him inquisitively.

"April Cohen, the schizo nympho on the third floor? You said it'd be fine if we discussed her case since she was your patient before they gave her to me."

Her voice was light, but for once, she wasn't smiling. She was watching him very carefully, letting her gaze be momentarily unguarded. And with the faint etch of concern, the raised-yet-slightly-furrowed brows, he could tell what she was thinking: _I know something's wrong._

She was giving him an out, and he would be a fool if he didn't take it, pride be damned.

He nodded slightly, clearing his throat a little.

"Yes—" he coughed again "—right. Although, doctor/patient confidentiality requires that we discuss her case in private."

"Of course," Quinzel agreed. "My office is closest, unless you…?"

At any other time, he would have sneered at the transparency of her words, but now he could only be grateful for how tactful she was (and that the other doctors were idiots).

"That's fine," he said mechanically.

"Okay. Well…" She trailed off, gesturing toward the door.

He nodded again and started to leave at once, giving her barely enough time to grab her water bottle, though she maintained her hold on his arm.

"Wait—Harley, I thought you were making coffee?" Adams called.

"Yeah, well, I just remembered: It's bad for me," Quinzel said over her shoulder, never once slowing down.

She moved at a surprisingly fast pace for a girl so small, and he felt like he was being led through the hallways, though they walked side by side. At one point, he, only half-paying attention, started to turn down the wrong hall in the direction of _his _office, and she quickly grabbed his wrist to put him back on the right path. Her touch was feather-light but it made his skin crawl, the feeling of a hand enclosed around his wrist entirely too familiar. He jerked away. Quinzel stared, but said nothing.

They reached her office in a matter of seconds—something that he was silently grateful for (his legs were shaking so badly he doubted that he would have been able to walk much farther). No sooner had they entered the modest space than he headed to the nearest chair (which was actually a couch) and dropped onto it.

There was a faint _click _as Quinzel locked the door, though he barely registered the sound. He closed his eyes, head spinning horribly...

And then there were hands, someone gently running their fingers up and down his arms, brushing the hair out of his face—he was too disoriented to flinch away—and that person was talking.

"It's okay… It's okay. You're all right, just breathe…"

Were it not for the fact that physical violence was so barbaric, he could have hit her. Of all the stupid, idiotic things to say—he was far from all right, couldn't she see that? Why in the hell did anyone ever think that hearing that would bring comfort?

"Breathe, sweetie… Breathe… You're okay…"

That was what he was _trying _to do, he wanted to yell at her, that oblivious little halfwit… As rational as he was, for that same reason, he couldn't believe that she was only trying to help. No one did that. There was always an ulterior motive, something to be gained… Watching those tapes had proven that Quinzel was not a complete imbecile. Fine, he could accept that. But they had also showed that she was quite the manipulator—nowhere close to being in league with him, of course, but still rather good. She was someone who only needed a few pieces of information about a person to put them all together and form a conclusion. And he had just jeopardized his privacy by putting on a pathetic display of weakness right in front of her. No doubt by now she had already formed several theories about him. Not that she could ever come close to figuring him out, but nonetheless, she had seen quite a lot. She could still use _that _against him.

He sighed wearily, letting his head sag as he felt her hands slide down his arms and come to lay over his own hands, which were resting on his knees. Had he the strength, he would have automatically tensed at the foreign sensation of skin-on-skin. No one touched him, especially not women. If they did, it was only ever to cause pain.

_**Ah, but you're in private, now. That's a different matter, isn't it? Remember Sherry?**_

_Yes, all too often now, thanks to her. That's going on the list, too._

Suddenly, a frown creased his forehead, this time out of confusion rather than pain.

The Scarecrow was wrong, Quinzel _had _touched him in public. She had taken his arm and led him away, in spite of all the curious stares and confounded gazes. It was something that Sherry never would have done, too afraid of what others might have thought. Yet another reason why he despised Fear and was determined to harness it.

But _this _one…

_**She doesn't know you**_, the Scarecrow reminded him. _**If this were high school, she wouldn't have been any different than the rest.**_

_It's not impossible for people to enjoy my company. Sherry liked me, and this one claims to—_

_**Again, it all comes down to who you are. Sherry didn't know you, and even if she had, she didn't like you well enough to stand up for you, did she? What does **_**that **_**say about her? As for Quinzel, she's oblivious. Probably another self-appointed matron like Leland.**_

He scoffed. _True. Although I doubt that Leland would ever give a man an asthma attack._

Blocking out the Scarecrow for now, he slowly opened his eyes to get a look at the bold creature who, ulterior motive or no, had chosen to defy societal norms.

With blurred vision, he saw that she was on her knees in front of him, eyes wide with concern.

"You okay?"

"You just told me that I was," he replied snidely.

If his response annoyed her, she didn't show it, instead forcing a bottle of water into his hands.

"Here."

Face pinched in annoyance, he pushed it away, shaking his head.

"No, it's yours."

"That's okay. I don't mind."

"I _do_," he said firmly. "No thank you."

"Oh," she said after a moment. Then her eyes lit up, as if something had clicked. "_Oh_—I didn't drink from it, if that's what you're worried about. I haven't even opened it yet."

One glance at the bottle of Fiji water told him that, indeed, the seal had yet to be broken. With an irritated sigh, he begrudgingly accepted the proffered beverage, unscrewed the lid, and drank deeply.

Within a matter of seconds, she was tugging his hand away.

"Not too fast, hon. You'll get sick."

"I'm well aware of that, Dr. Quinzel, and I think it's obvious that I'm already sick."

"Then you'll make yourself worse."

"I _know_." For God's sake, just when he was beginning to think that she was intelligent…

She cocked her head to the side, studying him.

"Huh. I wouldn't have taken you for a masochist."

"I'm _not_—why would you… Nevermind." Quinzel was being droll, but he could tell that she was also jumping to conclusions, throwing out ideas to see if he would catch them, like she had with Breedlove. But she was trying to find something that wasn't there. True, masochists fascinated him, but only because he had yet to understand how anyone could ever derive pleasure out of physical pain, even if he knew the person's reason behind it.

"Sorry. I was kidding," she tried to amend.

"Half-kidding," he corrected with a glare that made his head pound even harder.

She didn't seem to have a response to that—which proved that he had caught her—so she merely shrugged and looked away, though one of her hands was still touching one of his. He narrowed his eyes at it, but she didn't seem to notice, gazing absently out her window.

"D'you wanna lie down?" she suggested, still looking outside. He noted that her voice was softer and considerably less…nerve-grating than it usually was.

"I think—" he stopped, another wave of nausea hitting him, and shut his eyes. "Yes."

"Okay. It's a pull-out, actually, if you wanna—"

"No, no, this is fine," he replied, removing his suit coat before gingerly stretching out.

"I can take that, if you want, so it doesn't get wrinkled." She motioned to his jacket and he took a moment before wordlessly handing it to her.

"I'm not gonna find anything incriminating in the pockets, am I?" she teased, standing up and heading for the closet.

"Only if you go through them," he returned, shutting his eyes.

He thought that he heard a quiet hum of amusement, but wasn't certain. She was back in a matter of seconds and to his surprise, the couch shifted as she positioned herself right beside him. It was a testament to how small they were, if they could both be comfortable like that. Inexplicably, he felt himself flush and was secretly grateful that it could be blamed on sickness if she noticed.

"Pillow?"

Confused, he opened bleary eyes to see her holding what appeared to be an abnormally large sunfish in her lap. Blinking slowly, wondering if he was still hallucinating, he tried to take it all in. Then it hit him:

_A pillow. Right._

With a silent nod, he eased himself up on his elbows while she carefully slipped the bizarre pillow behind his head. It turned out to be surprisingly soft. For a fish.

"Thank you."

She nodded. "I can get you a blanket, too, if—"

"I'm fine, really. I wouldn't want to fall asleep in your office."

"I wouldn't mind," she said with a shrug.

"Well, _I_ would. It would be rude."

She raised an eyebrow at this statement.

"Fine, I wouldn't want to take advantage," he explained.

This time, both eyebrows arched. He rolled his eyes.

"Shut up."

She covered her mouth in a pitiful attempt to hide her giggling. Well, at least it was silent. If he'd had to hear any ear-shattering laughter at this point, he probably would have throttled her.

"So, what's wrong?" she asked after a moment. "I mean, if there's anything I can do…"

He shook his head, as if it was nothing.

"Nausea, dizziness, fatigue, cramping…"

"Your heart rate seemed a little elevated, too," she pointed out, and he realized that she must have felt his racing pulse when she had grabbed his wrist.

"It's nothing I'm not accustomed to," he told her offhandedly. It was true; he had always been prone to upsets and migraines. The only thing unusual about today's episode was that they were usually never this severe, and he knew that the toxin was the cause of that. And he had injected himself with the antidote, so he wasn't worried; he simply needed to calm down...

"What do you mean?" Quinzel inquired, bringing him out of his thoughts.

Mouth thinning a little, he lifted a hand and pressed it lightly against his waist, hoping that the heat would alieviate some of the pain, though it was unlikely. His hands were always cold. With a resigned sigh, he let himself relax into the couch, shutting his eyes again.

"That it's nothing," he told her finally. "Ever since I was a child, I've been getting these stomachaches…" He shook his head. "It's nothing."

"But…RAP is exclusive to children," she said.

He blinked at her.

"I'm sorry, _what?_"

"RAP—recurrent abdominal pain," she explained. "It's something that kids get, but it usually—"

"I know what it is," he cut in sharply. "I'm merely surprised that you're familiar with the term."

"My dad was a pediatrician," she informed him smoothly. "As I was saying, it just seems strange because RAP usually goes away by the time you're out of high school. Unless it's untreated…" She trailed off, gazing down at him questioningly, as if asking why anyone (specifically, any _parent_) would let their child's pain go untreated, and he knew that her brain was working a mile a minute trying to process everything she had just learned.

"Dr. Quinzel…" he trailed off, feeling flushed again. Her nearness was confounding. Even if she did use her intelligence to get her way, even if she hadn't slept with Dr. Gooding, that didn't mean that she wouldn't try the same thing with him. She clearly wanted _something_—there was no other explanation for her behavior—and any second now she would most likely make some kind of advance that would end horribly for the both of them. No one ever seemed to want to believe that he had no interest in that. It simply didn't appeal to him—it made a person weak and foolish—and besides that, he had better things to do.

"No, look," Quinzel said before he could even start. "Your business is your business, and you have no reason to tell me anything. I was just worried, that's all."

He made a noncommittal noise and covered his eyes, trying to take long, deep breaths.

"You don't believe me?" she asked, and with the way she said it, there was no appropriate response.

"You should known that I have little faith in others, Dr. Quinzel," he informed her. "We are, by nature, self-serving and self-motivated. I find it rather difficult to believe that anyone does anything purely out of the 'goodness of their heart,'" he finished derisively.

"That's understandable," she admitted fairly. "And, for the most part, it's true—most people, us included, are only looking out for themselves a lot of the time. And I don't expect you to believe me when I say that that's not what I'm trying to do here."

"But that _is _what you're telling yourself?" he inquired skeptically.

"I guess. Really, I can't think of much I'd gain from being nice to you—you seem like the kind of guy who'd be disgusted by flattery."

"How very astute of you," he replied sarcastically.

She smiled.

"Although, it'd be nice to…you know…get to know you better. You're one of the only people here that I actually like talking to—and I mean that, really."

"Then you have a strange taste in people. I haven't said one kind word to you or anyone else since I began working here, and I have a reputation amongst the staff for being rude and unapproachable. So unless you're completely oblivious, I can't think of a reason why you would enjoy my company."

She was smiling wider, now.

"I already told you—I think you're funny."

"Yes," he muttered through gritted teeth, "and since I doubt that I'm a comedic individual, I'm going to assume that you're making fun of me."

Her smile faded. She looked appalled.

"What? _No! _I meant the things you _say_ are funny—"

"Dr. Quinzel—"

"There, see? That's what I'm talking about. You flat-out refuse to call me 'Harley,' even though I gave you permission to. And it's not like you're doing it to annoy me; you really don't want to call me that, although I can't figure out _why_…" She shook her head. "And you're so straightforward about everything, like you aren't afraid of offending anyone… That's refreshing. I also like your brand of sarcasm," she added.

"Mm. The lowest form of wit."

"But the highest form of intelligence," she countered, smirking slightly.

"You find my honesty amusing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged.

"People aren't honest enough. They're too worried about being something they're not or getting everyone to like them—I think I told you how hard it is for me to be rude to someone who's being nice to me, even if I don't like them. So…it's nice to be able to talk to someone who isn't going to sugar coat everything. Besides, it seems like everyone goes into psychiatry for the prestige and the paycheck."

He rolled his eyes in silent agreement.

"But," she continued slowly, "I think you're in it for the same reason I am—you think that the mind is a fascinating thing and you know that this is the perfect place to study it."

"Not the joy of helping others?" he asked wryly.

She opened her mouth for a second, then closed it, smiling thoughtfully.

"Well. If there were any hope for these people, I might say yes, but I'm too much of a realist to think that I can really do much good. Some nonviolent patients might have a chance, but most of them? Nah. This is more of a learning experience than anything else."

"You don't say."

"I do, actually," she said. "Speaking of help, I forgot to ask—do you want any painkillers? I've got Motrin in my desk."

"If you don't mind, yes." He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if it would quell his surging headache, and he felt the couch shift again as she got to her feet.

Once his surroundings had stopped spinning long enough for him to take them in, he noted that her office was rather impersonal. This surprised him—she seemed like a very outgoing and public person—but as he glanced around the room, he began to wonder how much of that was a pretense.

_If it is, then she excels at faking sincerity._

Or…it wasn't an act. Perhaps Quinzel was fine with people knowing who she was but she didn't want to reveal anything about her private life.

The furniture was comfortable but simple, modern yet cozy, and all of it had been chosen deliberately to ensure that the environment _felt _lived-in without being stark and without ever revealing much about its occupant. There was a sleek ebony desk with a bright red laptop sitting on top of it (red must have been her favorite color, otherwise he doubted that she would have picked such an eye-catching shade for everyday use). Behind the desk was a black leather swivel chair (leather said sophistication, swivel said that she was given to bouts of immaturity). Then there was the dark blue futon on which he was resting (futon meant that she was either less energetic than she appeared or a workaholic who sometimes spent her nights there). Two large bookcases were stationed against opposite walls (also ebony), and a little chair that matched the couch had been placed in front of the desk. It was piled high with several cushions that he imagined must have been neatly arranged on the couch before he had decided to lay down (so the fish pillow was for her own, personal use alone and must have been a favorite if she'd taken it to work; that was why she kept it in her closet).

One thing that certainly stood out was the fact that there were no decorations on the walls, no paintings, or even pictures of the people in her life. Odd, considering how social she was—he was sure that she was type who had friends to spare. And yet the walls were bare, save for her doctorate and other certificates of merit, which had been hung up across from him (ensuring that guests would see them, he imagined).

At least the books on the shelves said a little bit about her personality. Most were the kind that one might expect any psychiatrist to have, though there were quite a few texts on serial killers and fetishes, as well as ones about feminism. The former told him that she had something of an unnatural fascination for social deviants, though he doubted that she would ever indulge in any of the practices that she read about. And the feminist books said that, while she believed in women's rights and wanted to _seem _liberal, she did very little to actually help the cause, if her clothing was any indication.

In front of him was a wrought iron coffee table with a glass top. A glance at it told him slightly more: that month's issues of _Psychology Today _and _Vogue_, along with, oddly enough, a book by Ray Bradbury.

"You're reading _The October Country?_" he asked with slight intrigue.

"Mm, rereading, actually. Though only 'The Small Assassin' story. It reminds me of one of my patients," she explained as she sat back down and handed him the bottle of Motrin.

"I wouldn't have thought he'd appeal to you."

"Oh no, I've always liked his work," she assured him while he shook out four of the orange pills, swallowed them, and took a sip of water.

"Really," he stated, handing the bottle back to her while murmuring a quiet thank you. "Do you have a favorite?" He expected her to say _Fahrenheit 451_, as that tended to be the one that most people liked (usually because it was the only Bradbury work that they had read), so it surprised him when she said,

"'The October Game.'" She shrugged a little. "I know it's horrible, but I can't help it. And the closing line is brilliant."

"It is," he agreed, despite himself. Although, he _did _want Quinzel's fear…and earlier that day, he had considered getting to know her better as a means of finding it. And now, once again, it seemed as though she was giving him an opportunity. He wondered if she even knew how easy she was making this for him.

"So what's your favorite?" she asked.

He pursed his lips, rolling his eyes skyward in reluctant admittance.

She tilted her head to the side, a grin slowly spreading across her face.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"Really?" She laughed a little, smiling brightly. "How 'bout that… That's good, though. Means I'm not the only one who gets a kick out of spine-chilling, um…implications, I guess you'd call them. I mean, he never really comes out and says it, does he?"

Shaking his head, he adjusted his position until her ridiculous fish pillow propped him up.

"No. And that's what makes the story so frightening—your mind comes up with more disturbing ideas than Bradbury could ever put on paper."

"It's what he doesn't say that scares us," she concluded, looking almost thrilled.

He nodded, wondering if his eyes were shining as much as hers.

"Exactly."

* * *

Well, this chapter turned out a heck of a lot longer than I'd originally intended. But, when it starts to write itself, there isn't much help for it. I hope that everything seemed okay and in-character during that last scene. It was difficult to hold back at times because there was so much that I wanted to include but couldn't because it would be too soon or just plain OOC. As always, don't hesitate to let me know what you think. :-)

**Notes**

…Quinzel's tapes – for some reason, I love the idea of Jonathan being a bit of a creeper and having videotapes of Harley's sessions, and then he slowly begins to realize that he loves to watch her work. Then a friend of mine commented that, not only is Jonathan a creeper, the entire concept is almost pornographic. Or, at least, as pornographic as my Jonny is ever going to get. My friend explained that, "All he needs is to get a bag of Cheetos and take his pants off, and he's all set!" To which I replied, "Hon, Dr. Crane doesn't eat _Cheetos_." And he responded with, "Wheat Thins, then, whatever." Not that I expect you guys to immediately think of sex at the thought of Jonathan watching Harley in a video (okay, maybe when I put it like that), but, my friend put the idea in my head so I guess now I'm paranoid that that's what you guys thought while reading the scene since it's now what comes to mind whenever _I _think about it.

…Quinzel had…worn such an outfit – and here, in Chapter V, I didn't think that I'd get to describe this ensemble. :-) Though I like to be detailed, I normally only include clothing descriptions if it's either significant in some way, or if I can get away with it without it sounding too boring and unnecessary. I think one of the many reasons I enjoy writing Harley so much is because I get to not only design but also describe a lot of cute outfits for her, whereas in my other stories, there hadn't really been much need for that. With _Across the Universe_, they're all a bunch of hippies with no need for material things, so it was kind of symbolic that their clothing wasn't mentioned; and with _Pirates of the Caribbean_, my two main characters basically wore the same outfit throughout the entire story. :-P

…he headed toward Daniel Wallace's cell – I was going to create an entirely new character, but I decided Daniel back. I felt kind of bad for what happened to him in Chapter V, but at the same time I didn't think that Jonathan had tortured him enough yet. :-P

"_Real _trauma, you see, begins in our youth." – direct quote from _Scarecrow: Year One_. I'm just glad that the skeleton of Jonny's dead grandmother didn't break through the floor and start clawing up his pant leg right after he said that. Hallucination or not, he should have kicked her in the face. That said, I know as a Crane fan I'm going to be a bit biased, but seriously, did anyone else feel that the ending of that was a little bit…unfair?

Alicia Edwards – I kind of think of Alicia and Daniel as being something like teenage versions of Harley and Jonathan, and their relationship sort of hints at what those two would have been like had they gone to high school together. Harley's expected to only associate with a certain group of people, yet she hangs out with Jonathan anyway. It's even unclear as to whether or not Daniel and Alicia were romantically involved. Although, thankfully, Jonathan and Harley's relationship doesn't end with him shooting her in the head. Cuz that's just not Jonny's style.

…it took the form of a steak – the idea of Jonathan's being intolerant of red meat stems from nothing, really. It has little to do with the fact that Cillian Murphy is a vegetarian—that was just sort of like a confirmation, if anything. Really, it hit me when I started to contemplate what Jonathan's favorite foods might be (this was shortly after the Cheetos conversation) and I had a difficult time picturing him eating red meat (or anything at all, actually; he has more important things to worry about). I don't know why, but I just can't see it happening. The same thing goes for anything sweet, although unlike the meat thing, I haven't come up with a specific reason for why he doesn't care for anything sugary, other than he was deprived of it as a child and so now, as an adult, it's just too much of a shock for his taste buds.

..._his toy rabbit pressed against his belly_ – this idea came from a friend's little sister who once told me that this is what she does with her favorite stuffed animal whenever she's sick, whether she has chicken pox or the flu or something else entirely. In a way, it kind of makes sense. If a child sees their favorite toy as a source of comfort, then it's likely that having that toy with them when they're hurt or sick is going to give them the sense of feeling better. It goes along with that 'mind has power over body' thing that Dr. Crane talked about. :-)

5'6 – I think I read somewhere that Cillian Murphy is 5'8/5'9 (still not very tall), but I had this urge to shrink my Jonathan by two inches, just because I think it helps his ability to control and manipulate people seem even more impressive.

…_kind _of anorexic – having to perform the monologue "The Orange" from Joyce Carol Oates's play _I Stand Before You Naked_ really opened my eyes to those that suffer from eating disorders. Contrary to popular belief, SED; anorexia, bulimia, and orthorexia nervosa; and other eating disorders are not always about being thin. Much of the time, it seems like having control (even over something like eating) is an important issue because the person's life is so screwed up. Sometimes, it's actually biological because the chemicals/hormones that control a person's appetite or digestion are out of balance. Other times, it's brought on by overly critical and unaffectionate parents, which can cause children to become self-destructive. And, then, of course, it can also be a result of trauma. There's an article on PsychologyToday. com written by a staff member who is also recovering from an eating disorder and it does a really good job of explaining disproving all the myths surrounding anorexia: http:/ www. psychologytoday. com/ blog/ hunger-artist/ 200908/ five-anorexia-myths-exploded.

Dr. Strange – some of his characterization is based off of the cartoons/comic books, but most of my inspiration for Dr. Strange came from the Joker Blogs on YouTube, which, if there is anyone out there who hasn't watched them yet, go do so now. Not only are they darkly humorous, but the acting, writing, and costuming are actually quite well done.

blood sausage – I think it's mainly Americans who call it blood sausage, and it's more commonly known as black pudding or blood pudding everywhere else. It's eaten in many different countries, which means that there are many different ways to cook it, but the basic idea is that you make the sausage by using blood as a filler and cooking it until it's thick enough to congeal whenever it cools. I'm not entirely clear on where the actual dish originated, but it seems to be generally accepted that the name comes from the German _Blutwurst_. So, actually, Harley was wrong; blood sausage (or _boudin noir_) is served in France, but it isn't specific to the country. It _is_ disgusting, however, though that's just my opinion; sorry if anyone's a fan. :-)

hypnotherapy – in regards to Harley's saying that hypnotherapy is pointless when it comes to treating psychopaths…she's kinda right. Though I'm inclined to agree with her—the thought of being hypnotized freaks me out—hypnosis _is _considered a reliable form of psychotherapy, it is not appropriate for someone suffering from hallucinations, delusions, or other psychotic symptoms—basically, the kind of people (both patients _and _staff members, haha) you'd find at Arkham.

her mother, the lawyer – the concept of Harley's mom's being an attorney was totally inspired/borrowed/taken from Nixie-doodle's Gotham Origins stories (which are all fabulous and definitely worth reading). Since Sheryl Quinzel is a somewhat authoritative, (outwardly) callous, no nonsense kind of person who's prone to stressing out, I felt that a career in law suited her.

…suing her dentist for sexual harassment – the disturbing thing is, this is based on a real-life case that I heard about in my criminal justice class. And you thought that you hated the dentist _before _you read this story.

electroconlusive therapy – aka, "electroshock therapy." Actually, controversial though it may be, ECT has been proven the most effective treatment for major depression, and it's also used in treating schizophrenia, mania, and catatonia. Though there are those who say that it was a terrifying and painful experience that rivals the feeling of being raped, most of the patients who have undergone ECT claim that it is highly beneficial and even lifesaving. From what I've gathered, there appear to be no lasting adverse effects and it's only used if the patient has not responded to other treatment, which means that Jonathan shouldn't be giving Daniel electroshock treatment, but then, Jonathan isn't known for his kind and forgiving nature. I feel like something of a hypocrite for complaining so much about media-promoted stereotypes and then implying that ECT is nothing more than a means of torture in my story, but then, that's what the notes are for. :-)

…tell them where to shove their damn Evian – the combination of anger, nausea, physical weakness, and bad memories would make anyone rather crass, even Dr. Crane.

"I didn't drink from it, if that's what you're worried about." – I've always pictured Jonathan as being a bit of a germaphobe as well as a neat freak. Nothing as severe as OCD, but he's clearly a very clean and organized guy (at least, he is before he goes crazy). For my Jonathan, specifically, this probably has something to do with his mother's constantly ranting about what a filthy, dirty little bastard he is and her not wanting to ever touch him. I'm actually basing this (very, _very _loosely) on a friend of mine whose mother was and is still adamant about him washing his hands and, as a result, he's grown up to be somewhat germaphobic.

…he had always been prone to upsets and migraines – as adults, victims of child abuse often tend to suffer from chronic head, abdominal, or muscular pain with no identifiable reason. However, studies show that most of the abuse wasn't directly related to these problems, which indicates that there were other possible causes for their pain, as opposed to the abuse that they suffered as children. Which adds up, considering that my Jonathan was born underweight and sickly and is therefore prone to all kinds of health problems on top of being abused.

"RAP—recurrent abdominal pain" – this usually occurs in children between the ages of six and nineteen. There is no known cause for it, though studies suggest that anxiety and stress may be to blame, as they are often associated with episodes. Like Harley said, it's typically only continues into adulthood if it's left untreated. To me, it would make sense for Jonathan to have RAP when he was a kid/teenager, considering how stressful his childhood was, and for him to still suffer from it as an adult as well, not only because it's unlikely that Granny Crane would've done anything about it when he was a child, but also because his adult life isn't exactly stress-free either.

'The October Country' – is an amazing short story by Ray Bradbury, which you can read online, by the way. It's one of my favorites, and I highly recommend it, along with _The October Country _and _Fahrenheit 451_, as well as pretty much anything Bradbury has written. He's very good at getting under a person's skin and making them use their imaginations.

**Disclaimer****:** I don't own Jonathan or Harley. Drs. Adams, Cavendish, and Strange are not my property either, and neither is Lyle Bolton or the work of Ray Bradbury (though I _do _own copies of his work). As far as I can tell, the only people that I can lay claims to in this chapter are Wallace and the hallucination of Jonny's evil grandmother.


	8. Fire, Fire

**Chapter VIII**

_**Fire, Fire**_

**Note****:** This chapter needs to be revamped so badly. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I think it's God-awful, just a bit rushed. And there needs to be a scene where Harley's a little kid in school. And also one that focuses more on her sister. I realize this now, and intend to fix it soon. 'Til then, feel free to read on.

~*~

There were no photos of Harley Quinzel before the age of eleven. None of her birth with the newborn child and her exhausted yet beaming mother and terrified but hopeful father, or of her first trip to an amusement park when her father had taken her on the Ferris wheel and she had been so frightened that she had dug her sharp little fingernails into her his arm the entire time, or of her older sister teaching her how to ride a bike right before Harley lost control and flew over the handlebars and onto the sidewalk. Nor were any relics of any kind—toys, baby clothes, child's drawings. It was as if, before age eleven, the little girl had never existed.

If only it was that simple. Harley would later read numerous articles and books about feral children, kids who had suffered from abuse and neglect, little girls and boys who had been molested by a deranged parent since the age of four…and she would think that, when compared to what some had had to endure while growing up, her childhood was not _terribly_ tragic. But still, she would admit that it was not as simple as it could have been.

In a way, it was almost fitting that there was no evidence of Harley before her eleventh year. Because, before then, her life hadn't started. Not really. True, the child had been alive, but she didn't think that she'd really been _living_, although that was probably normal, considering the limitations of children. If anything, Harley had been forced to grow up too quickly too soon, her inner child made to lie dormant until she discovered just what had happened to her. But that wouldn't occur until she went off to college and had one of many defining moments. Yet it would not be the first. That had happened at age eleven.

Until then, Harley had led a relatively normal childhood, living in the pleasant suburbs with her parents Jackson and Sheryl, and her sister Karen, who was two years her senior. The siblings got along fairly well, with silly fights occurring every other day only to be forgotten several minutes later. Her mother was nice enough and was always there to iron this shirt or drive her to gymnastics practice, but Harley couldn't help but think that she was a bit melodramatic, at times, and that she worried too much even if it _was _her job. But then, since the beginning, Harley had preferred being with her father, having determined that her mother and Karen were much too serious and boring; her daddy liked to have _fun_. It was natural that the talkative, energetic little girl wanted to be with him.

He had even been the one to give her her name. She couldn't really remember how it had happened, just that, one day, her father had called her 'Harley' and the name had stuck.

But it was her mother's frantic cries of "Harley! _Harleen!_" that had pierced through the night and roused the eleven-year-old girl from sleep. There was the smell of smoke and she had opened her eyes to a hazy world filled with the haunting sounds of frightened sobs, rapid footsteps, harshly uttered commands, and the faint crackle of flames.

Harley was forcing herself into a sitting position when her mother had dashed into the bedroom, seizing the little girl by the shoulders and shaking her violently to wake her, too overcome with panic to see that the child was already awake.

Her head lolling like some sick bobble head, Harley had slapped the hands away, yelling, "Mom, I'm up, I'm up! What's wrong?"

"No time!" was all her mother said before she grabbed the little girl by the wrist and yanked her out of bed.

Mother and daughter had raced down the shadowy hallway, the dense smoke burning their eyes and throats and making Harley cough and stumble as her mother dragged her along.

"Mom, we're supposed to be on the floor!" she protested, trying to remember everything she had learned in kindergarten when her class had done fire drills. Always remain calm, feel doors for heat before opening them, drop to the ground and crawl because smoke inhalation can kill…

At that moment, Sheryl Quinzel was doing none of those things; she was running in a blind panic, snapping at her daughter for telling her what to do—_she _was the adult, not Harley—and for being too slow.

"But _Mo_-om!" Harley whined.

"Harley, enough!" Sheryl snarled, dyed blonde head whipping around to glare at her daughter. "_Enough!_ I don't want to hear another word from you, do you understand? Not another _word_. The house is on _fire_, don't you realize that?"

Her voice was shrill, nearly hysterical, as she pulled Harley down the stairs.

"Oh God, where is your father?" she murmured, and Harley had watched as her mother's green eyes frantically scanned the living room, which was slowly being consumed by flames that crept in from the once-cheery kitchen.

Then she was being pulled along again, this time through the front door, and practically thrust into the outside world. As her mother pushed her toward the sidewalk, Harley turned around to look up at what used to be their house, watching in awe as thick clouds of smoke billowed from the windows and flames licked at the wooden paneling, turning light yellow to charred black within seconds. All of their things were inside, all of her toys, her clothes, her books… She hadn't even had time to grab Jessica—her porcelain doll that her grandmother had bought in Scotland with bright red hair and light green eyes, black stockings, an emerald coat with silver buttons and black braiding around the sleeves and collar, and a tam-o'-shanter with a light blue pom-pom. At age eleven, Harley thought herself too old to actually play with dolls, but she had cherished Jessica all the same. She was her favorite toy, Harley had had her since she was five…

Suddenly, her eyes began to burn and it had nothing to do with the smoke. In the distance, she could hear sirens and she wondered if she could ask one of the firemen to retrieve Jessica when they got there. She looked up at her mother, at the shivering, distressed woman beside her and knew better than to bother her with something so silly. It would be difficult but ultimately better if she put it out of her mind.

"God_damn _it," Sheryl swore in a fierce whisper, biting her fingernails so hard that Harley worried that they might bleed. "Jackie, where are you? You said you would be here, you said you would _be _here…"

"Mommy," Harley breathed, her blue eyes impossibly wide. She only ever said 'Mommy' when she was scared, and the thought that had just struck her was an utterly terrifying one.

Her mother wasn't listening. "Oh God, what's if Karen's been hurt? Oh my God…"

"Mommy," Harley whimpered again, tugging on her mother's hand like a three-year-old.

"Be quiet, Harley."

"But Mommy—"

"I said be quiet—"

"But what if Daddy's…" She began to sob, unable to finish. It wasn't possible—her father had always been there, standing as her strong, unbeatable protector. There was no way he could be… "And where's Karen?" she demanded suddenly, glaring up through her tears at the blurred vision of her mother.

"_I don't know!_" Sheryl had snapped, the last frayed ties to her control severed as she rounded on her tiny daughter. "I don't _know! _He took Karen and said that he would meet me out front, but he _isn't here_…oh God…oh my God, _Karen_… I can't…"

Harley had watched in frightened confusion as her mother sank to the ground, hands roughly gripping fistfuls of hair, her lips moving soundlessly. Falling apart. The little girl had heard the term used before by adults on TV, usually when they were talking about crazy people, and she had never really been sure of what it meant—how exactly did a person 'fall apart?' Did all of their limbs pop off, like with her Barbie dolls? But she had done that herself because she was bored and curious…

As Harley looked at her mother, a shiver ran through her. This was wrong—her mother wasn't supposed to be like this. Sheryl had always had a flair for the dramatic…but she was usually so calm and in control.

_Falling apart, falling apart…_ The chilling words swirled around and around inside the little girl's head.

Her father wasn't there. That was what had done this. He was gone, but the child had no idea where to find him.

"M-maybe they're at the neighbors' house?" she suggested meekly, growing more worried when her mother didn't say anything. "Maybe they went to get help? Mom? Mommy?"

"Sherri?"

Her mother's eyes had lit up at the sight of the wiry, fair-haired man running across the lawn with a small blonde girl and several neighbors trailing after him.

"Jackson!" she gasped, practically throwing herself at him as he pulled her into a crushing embrace.

"Daddy!" Harley exclaimed, rushing to her father's side, waiting impatiently to be noticed. She and her had sister glanced at one another, each relieved to see the other girl alive and unharmed, but unsure of how to react. At thirteen, Karen had reached that stage where she wanted little to do with her younger sister, and, apparently, that desire still persisted even in the face of a fire. For her part, Harley simply felt unsure of herself. Their house and everything that they had ever owned was ruined and she had just witnessed her own mother having a nervous breakdown, and her sister just stood there _staring _at her.

Until there came the sharp _crack!_ of their mother slapping their father across the face.

"Jesus, Sherri!" Jackson cursed, raising one hand to rub his cheek, one arm still wrapped firmly around his wife.

"You bastard!" Sheryl spat.

"What?"

"How could you?" she demanded. "How could you leave me like that? How could you leave Harley? You said that you would be on the front lawn and you _weren't!_"

"I said that I would meet you _outside_—" Jackson tried to correct her, but Sheryl would have none of it.

"Do you have any idea how terrified I was? I thought you'd been hurt! I thought you'd been killed! I didn't…I didn't know where you were..! I thought…"

Ignoring Karen's startled expression, Harley watched for the second time as her mother gave in to tears and crumpled against her father's chest, sobbing weakly.

With a shaky sigh, Jackson held his trembling wife closer, gently stroking her hair while whispering repeatedly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I'll never do that again…"

Sheryl seemed not to hear him, instead gasping faintly "Oh _Karen_" and breaking away to stoop down and wrap her arms around the bewildered little girl.

"I was so worried," she murmured, holding her daughter tightly.

"Me too," Karen said, beginning to cry. "Mom, what're we gonna do? Everything's gone…"

"It'll be all right, honey. Everything will be fine," her mother assured her, though she looked far from it herself.

Knowing that she needed her space, Jackson had let his wife be, moving to stand beside his youngest child.

"How're you doing, Harley?" he asked calmly, the question ridiculously casual at such a dire time, but that was how he had always handled extreme situations.

"I'm okay," she said, leaning against his side as he put his arm around her shoulders. "Daddy," she began, suddenly remembering, "I left Jessica inside."

Most fathers would have had no clue as to what their daughter was talking about, but then, Jackson Quinzel had never been like most fathers.

"Was that the one that your mother thinks looks like you?"

Harley shook her head, thinking of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll in the sugar pink dress. "No, that was Hailey. And I don't care if she's gone. She was creepy."

"Then you mean the redhead," he deduced at once. He knew his daughter's dolls, but for some reason he had never been able to keep Jessica and Hailey straight.

"Yeah, that's her," she replied, feeling strangely detached. "I left her inside."

Her father sighed, gazing up at the growing flames, his face expressionless. It was odd. There was no fear or sadness; he almost seemed resigned. And maybe he was. After all, there was nothing that anyone could do about it now—the firemen had only just started to arrive. Besides, everyone was safe. That was what mattered.

"Shit, sweetie," her father murmured, not thinking.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Shit."

He looked down at her, smirking a little.

"Don't let your mother hear you talking like that."

Despite it all, she returned the smile.

"Okay."

Together they stood in silence and watched their home burn.

**~*~**

**Notes**

Jessica – there are a couple of things to point out about the doll, one being that she's from Scotland, which is entirely personal and nothing more than a reference to my own heritage but, hey, I figured I'd point it out anyway. The second is the fact that the doll is a redhead. There are two things to note about this—first, that Harley's favorite toy as a child is a redheaded doll and that she later goes on to have a (possibly?) lesbian relationship with redhead Pamela Isley.

"… Everything's gone…" – it should be pointed out that Karen's immediate concern is their material possessions, while Harley worries about these things briefly before dismissing them as being unimportant in the long run, even though she later mentions Jessica to her father which shows that she _is _capable of having a small amount of attachment to some things. The main reason for this entire chapter was to show how Harley realized the unimportance of material objects. Having lost everything as a kid, I doubt that she would be willing to let herself grow too sentimental about her possessions. True, as an adult, she enjoys buying clothing, shoes, and the like, but she would have an easy enough time adjusting if they were suddenly gone. Which is a good trait to have if she's going to be involved with the Joker.

**Disclaimer****:** Not mine, except for Jackson, Sheryl, and Karen.


	9. How to Win Friends and Influence People

**Chapter IX**

_**How to Win Friends and Influence People**_

"Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?"

– Abraham Lincoln

* * *

Note: So, I honestly thought that I would have this up sooner than this (also thought that this story would be done by Halloween :-P), but then my laptop took a dive and when I finally got it back, it was the night I had to study for an exam. So, no writing for me. The good thing is, nothing that I'd had written was lost, which…yeah, don't even wanna think about that. Anyway, enjoy the chapter; it's progressive, but kinda fun, too. At least, it's as fun as this story is ever going to get, anyway.

* * *

Several weeks had passed since the incident with Wallace when, with no motive that he could detect, Harleen Quinzel had dragged him into her office and offered him a handful of painkillers before he could make an idiot of himself. And in those few weeks, he had discovered two things: One being that it would have been _much _easier to despise the girl if she was only as stupid as he'd originally thought. And the second was that, at some point, he had stopped referring to her as 'Dr. Quinzel.' He couldn't remember specifically when it had happened, only the conversation that had led up to it.

"So…why won't you call me by my first name, again?"

"Because you didn't _ask _me to call you that. You asked me to call you by your _nickname_."

"And you think that's…unprofessional…of me?"

"I know that professionalism isn't one of your main concerns," he had replied, "but it _is _one of mine. I prefer to look and behave in a manner that is both reflective of my accomplishments and appropriate for my line of work. Ergo, having one of my colleagues do the opposite, however minor it may be, is rather…irksome."

She had taken a moment to scrutinize him, smiling coyly, before saying:

"In that case, can I at least call you 'Jonathan?' This doctor-doctor stuff is gonna make everyone think we're having role-play sex or something."

"Everyone here, with the exception of Dr. Gooding," he had added with a hint of irritation, "calls me by my title."

"Yeah, but, you know how people are. And it seems like, everywhere I work, they have this habit of thinking I'm sleeping with half of the guys there."

The look in her eyes had been a curious one, and he hadn't been able to decide if her remark was meant to be a dig at him or not. She couldn't have known that he had originally assumed that that was how she had secured a position at Arkham, but he imagined that she might have had a few theories.

"I don't know _where _they get that idea. I mean," she went on, "I only did that once."

"……sarcasm."

"Yes."

He had shaken his head, but at the same time, felt somewhat inclined to agree with her statement about their colleagues.

Really, he would have liked to think that their co-workers weren't so immature, but he wouldn't have put it past some of those halfwits (Adams and Gooding immediately came to mind) to get the wrong idea. Not that he agreed with Freud and his theories, but there were times when he wondered if the impotent old bastard hadn't been on to something.

Besides, he _had _decided to play at being friends with the girl. Consenting to let her use his first name would most likely be beneficial.

So he had agreed. All had gone well, at first. He had continued to address her as 'Dr. Quinzel,' and she, in turn, had referred to him as 'Jonathan,' albeit, not often in public (he wasn't sure if he felt appreciative of her consideration or annoyed that she thought him so sensitive). However, somehow, at some point, for some reason, she had taken it too far. He had questioned her on it at once.

"Why did you call me that?"

"Call you what?" she had asked in such an innocent tone that it had taken nearly everything he had not to throttle her.

"That," he had responded curtly.

"That what?"

"You _know _what."

"Um… Oh! Oh shit—I called you 'Jonny,' didn't I?"

"Yes, I believe you did."

"Sorry." She had winced. "It's a habit. Ask any of my friends; I do it to most everyone's name."

"Really."

She had given him a helpless shrug, saying, "Just be glad you're not one of my boyfriends. I always end up calling them something cutesy and horrible like 'puddin'' or 'bunny.' Although I don't think I've ever actually _used _either of those…" She waved a hand dismissively. "Anyway, point is, it's one of those things that's meant to be funny at first, but then it gets bad because I start to do it automatically?"

He hadn't quite known how to respond to that, and, to be frank, he hadn't found that piece of information very interesting. Personal though it was, it didn't tell him much about her, other than he had something new to add to his list: She was fond of pet names.

He had all but cringed in disgust at the thought. Yes, he supposed he should have been glad that he wasn't her boyfriend.

As for her calling him 'Jonny…' At first, he had been wholly against letting her get away with that. He wasn't 'Jonny' and the only time that he ever had been was when his loathsome classmates hadn't been calling him by some far crueler epithet. Though, oftentimes, they had thrown it in with the rest of their taunts.

Piercing, sing-song cries of "_Scarecrow, scarecrow! Jonny is a scarecrow!_" had invaded his thoughts before being defeated by his superior mental strength. He was past that and had been for years. Words were words—only as powerful as he allowed them to be. Therefore, logic dictated that being irked by 'Jonny' would not only be a waste of energy, it would also mean that he hadn't overcome those schoolyard jeers at all, when he knew that he had. And it was quickly becoming clear that Harleen fed off of information. It had been bad enough when she discovered that he suffered from RAP; she didn't need to know that she had gotten to him just by calling him 'Jonny.'

Besides, he had admitted, malice dissipating as quickly as it had risen, it wasn't as if she had said it to be catty. If anything, going by her explanation, addressing him as such meant that she felt a sort of…fondness for him.

Which made no sense, as he was hardly the type of person that anyone expressed any affection for, but then, this was coming from the same girl who smiled at him and thought that he was funny.

With all that in mind, he had decided to let the childish nicknaming to continue. However, he had refused to make it easy for her.

"I don't mind," he had said with a sharp glance in her direction, "provided that you refrain from calling me that again."

"I'll try, though I don't know if I can promise anything. Like I said, it just sorta happens."

"Well, if it does…I'll call you 'Harleen.'" There. He imagined that she must not have cared very much for her first name if she insisted that everyone called her 'Harley.'

Her brief moment of hesitation had solidified his theory. But when she had replied, her tone had betrayed nothing.

"That's fair. Although, you should know that the only person that ever calls me that is my mother." A quick flash of that damn smile. "When I'm in trouble."

In her defense, annoyed as he had been at the comment, her tone hadn't sounded at all flirtatious, simply matter-of-fact. That hadn't made it any less vexing, however.

After that little quip, he had begun to wonder if this pretense at friendship was worth it. A brain-dead vixen, he could string along easily. But a girl who was actually somewhat intelligent (and had good taste in clothing and literature and studied criminal psychology for all the _right _reasons)? That was something else entirely. That made matters more difficult.

And he knew that that was part of the reason why he now found himself standing outside room 453, waiting for Harleen, not Dr. Quinzel, to finish her session.

* * *

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"Mr. Bolton gave a detailed account of what happened."

"He's…he's lying, then. I didn't do that—any of it. I would've remembered, right?"

"Well…"

The sentence died with a downward glance at her patient. April Cohen was on her side with her head resting on her doctor's lap, letting her lifeless, dirty blonde hair be stroked. It had been dyed, she noted, the dark roots beginning to show. April didn't seem to care.

A schizophrenic nymphomaniac was a step down from Allan Breedlove, but that didn't make the girl any less interesting. Especially when, for a nympho, April appeared to have very little interest in sex. Curious, as she had been committed to Arkham for nearly killing a man after he had refused to give in to her advances. And several of the guards, as well as her previous doctors, had reported being flirted with or fondled by her. Not that April could recall doing any of that, or so the girl said.

"What _do _you remember?" she finally asked.

April licked her lips, dark brown eyes flitting around the cell in weary confusion. Not an unattractive girl, right in the middle of plain, bordering on pretty. So far, she had been pleasant enough, very matter-of-fact, if a little confused. Hardly flirtatious and seductive, despite the many claims that said otherwise.

"I think…I, no, I remember him being on _top _of me…although I don't know how he got there. But I didn't like it. I think I asked him to get off."

"That's not what Mr. Bolton said."

"He's lying..."

"But if he is, why would he lie?"

"Because he's a pervert?" April guessed.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from snickering.

"Well, that _is _one reason."

"You don't believe me," the younger woman stated, tone flat, eyes sulky. "It's okay; no one else does, either. You're still a good doctor, though. At least you try to understand."

"Thank you…" she said, a little surprised at the complement. "It's not that I don't believe you. It's just that I'm hearing two sides to a story and one of them adds up better than the other one does. You might not remember approaching Mr. Bolton, but there are witnesses that claim that you did. But at the same time, you say you didn't want him around you."

"I don't think...I like him very much," April whispered. "I don't like him."

"What don't you like about him?"

The other woman bit her lip.

"He has too much power. And he knows it. So he abuses it. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if he did," she added quickly. "He seems like a bully, and people like that usually…"

She nodded as April trailed off.

"What's that called?" her patient asked. "When someone acts tough because they feel really small?"

"An inferiority complex," she replied. "Although, I don't think Bolton has one of those."

"He's just…_mean_."

"Yes…"

April looked up at her, puzzled.

"Are you allowed to say stuff like that?"

She shrugged a little. "No."

Her patient smiled back, however slightly.

"That's funny. If this were group therapy, Dr. Leland would scold me for saying that about someone."

"Dr. Leland can be a little condescending, at times," she admitted.

April nodded emphatically. "Her voice bugs me. It's like she always ends her sentences with 'okay, sweetie?' She sounds so nice and patient, you _know_ she doesn't mean it. She's really thinking 'I'll just humor this crazy person because they don't know what they're saying.'"

She nodded. "I know what you mean. She likes to treat everyone like they're kids."

"Everyone?" April asked. "Even you?"

"Yes, and every time she does, I…I can't help but think that…I kinda wanna eat her head."

Wide-eyed, April snorted, covering her mouth at once as she tried not to giggle.

She shrugged.

"Sorry, that's just how I feel."

Her patient shook her head.

"You're a _bad _doctor," she informed her, gasping, "but you're good at what you do."

"Thanks."

Still snickering, April glanced at the door.

"Dr. Crane's outside. He was my old shrink…"

"I know." She meant the second part, not the first, surprised to look up and see the small, slight figure standing outside the cell, looking impatient.

"What did he say about me?" April was curious to know.

"That the reason you're a nymphomaniac is because you're desperate for any kind of attention, good or bad, and that's why you always say that you don't like sex. Which, to me, sounds more like narcissism than nymphomania, but that wouldn't explain the memory loss. Although, he seemed to think that that was just another ploy to get attention."

"So…he doesn't like me, is what you're saying."

"No, that's…not what I'm saying, but I don't think he likes a lot of people, honestly." _Especially women, and especially if they try to put the moves on him..._

"Does he like you?"

"Ahm…I don't…really know," she answered truthfully.

"You like him?" For a woman accused of trying to kill a man, April sounded remarkably innocent.

"Mm. I think he's intriguing."

The other woman pursed her lips together in a scowl, thinking.

"Do you think I'm desperate for attention?"

"You've never displayed any signs of that when you're with me, but then, I think I might give you more attention than the other doctors."

"You mean…like this?" April gestured to the two of them, indicating how she had been allowed to use her lap as a pillow.

"Yeah."

"Are you like this with all your patients?"

"No, not all of them."

"So…I'm special, then?"

"Mr. Tess was teasing you and you seemed upset," she explained, keeping her tone neutral, all the while filing April's words away for further study.

"I _was_ upset…" the girl admitted. "I don't like him very much, either, but I like Bolton less."

"I'll talk to Dr. Gooding; see if I can't get Bolton's schedule rearranged so he doesn't have to patrol your ward."

"Thank you," April said softly.

"Hm. Well, I think our session's about over."

"Wouldn't wanna keep Dr. Crane waiting."

"Well, you know what he's like," she smirked, imagining that she was one of the few people who thought it was amusing whenever the normally stoic doctor grew impatient. Everyone else probably either knew better or just didn't see the humor in it.

April sat up on the cot and watched her rise to straighten her skirt, her dark-eyed gaze intent.

"Is there anything else you wanna tell me before I leave?" she asked, picking up her clipboard and scribbling down a few notes. April slowly shook her head.

"No…no, I don't think so."

"Well…y'know, if there _is _anything…" She let the sentence hover, unfinished. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you…" The other girl pulled her legs up to her chest and stared blankly at the floor, rubbing her temple absently.

With a small frown, she exited the cell.

* * *

Harleen smiled when she saw him. As always.

"Hi... Is there… Is there something going on? Did you need me for…?"

"Yes, actually," he confirmed. "That article of yours that you wanted me to look over?"

Wide, blue eyes betrayed her apprehension while still looking slightly hopeful.

"Yeah?"

What was he to say to her? Frank though he may have been, he wasn't accustomed to giving complements, especially to someone he occasionally still felt the urge to strangle. But…her essay hadn't been _bad_. Her sentence structure needed work and her level of eloquence wasn't quite on par with his, but she had argued her points well and made them come across clearly. And the essay had been all about Fear, the importance of accepting and overcoming it, and the power it could have over the human mind. He couldn't despise an article like that. At least, not completely.

But he hated her for being on the same page as him; she was making this entire situation far too difficult.

He cleared his throat.

"It was…passable," he finally admitted, "and…comprehensible. Definitely creative, I'll give it that. But I think that it would benefit from being edited before you send it to _the Harvard University Press_."

"Well, in my defense, it's only the rough draft. I just wanted to see what you thought of my ideas before I spent a lot of time on a final copy. I mean, there wouldn't be much point if the original wasn't worth the effort."

"True," he agreed. "As for your ideas for overcoming Fear, they're a bit…radical."

She smirked at him. "The guy who's a success thanks to his unorthodox methods is saying _I'm _radical?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's what _others _will say. I, on the other hand…" He chose his words carefully. "…I think your solution is feasible."

Her eyebrows rose. "Really?"

He couldn't believe that he was doing this.

"Yes," he admitted. "Actually, I wouldn't mind discussing it further in a more private setting. Strictly as colleagues, of course." He watched her nod, slightly impressed that a knowing, flirtatious smirk did not grace her features. "Are you free this evening?"

She winced, "Sorry. I've kinda already made plans."

Disappointment sank like a heavy weight before quickly being pushed aside by bitter resentment. Of course, she had other plans. Probably with some doe-eyed med. student who wore his shirttails out under his sweater _all _the_ time _to show that he was smart-but-kick-back. The kind of person who would drag her to modern art museums, Starbucks coffee shops, and showings of old, black and white foreign films to prove to her what a cultured, yuppie schmuck he was. Pathetic. But then, Harleen probably _liked _that sort of man.

"Tell you what, though," she said, disrupting his mental tirade. "Umm…if you want, you can call me after, like, ten or so. I should be home by then."

His eyebrows rose.

"That's early.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, assuming your plans involve going on a date, ten o'clock seems like a relatively early time to be in. It's almost as if you were expecting it to go badly."

She studied him carefully, blue eyes scanning quickly on an impassive face that told him that she knew that he had figured her out and that she wasn't entirely thrilled about it.

"Who said I have a date?" she finally asked him.

"That's usually what it means when someone says they've already made plans, doesn't it?" he inquired calmly. "That, and ten is both a suspiciously late and a curiously early time to be getting home."

"...okay," she allowed after a beat. "You got me. It'll be the first time we'll have really gone out, and he _seemed_ okay until he suggested going to see _Hiroshima Mon Amour_. And if you've never seen an avant-garde melodrama about a Japanese man and a French woman who speak in metaphors, then you aren't missing much."

"Not a fan, I take it?"

She made a little face. "_No_. What's worse is that it's a blatant attempt to seem smart and cultured; it's so…_phony_. Now, if he'd said _Un chien andalou_, it'd have been a different story, but, as it turns out…"

"Right," he murmured, making a mental note to look into the film; Harleen's taste in movies would tell him a great deal about her. That she enjoyed a French film entitled _The Andalusian Dog _suggested that she was an animal lover who wanted to either be or appear cultured. Then there was the fact that she had pronounced both films' titles properly, which made him speculate that she must have taken French in high school, or at least college. And if it was the former, then it was likely that she had chosen it over Spanish (or possibly German; maybe Latin). This confirmed his earlier theory about her desire to be cultured and also told him that she was somewhat pretentious, since he doubted that she had studied French for the same reasons that he had—a sincere appreciation for the language and deliberate nonconformity when everyone else had been lazy and signed up for Spanish because of the promise that it was easier. A few shared traits did not mean that they were academically equal. Regardless of her psychiatric abilities, she still came off as the type of person who had coasted through high school, content to earn Bs, until she had entered college and discovered psychology.

He sighed internally, looking her up and down.

"You said around ten?"

* * *

"Hello?"

"Hello. Harleen?"

"Oh hi, _mom_."

"Cute."

He said that like it was a _bad_ thing…

"Yeah, you know, I'm kinda surprised you called. I didn't think you liked me enough to wanna talk to me outside of Arkham."

"I assure you, this is purely a work-related matter."

"Hmm…okay. I'll take your word for it."

So he wasn't going to ask her about her date. In truth, she hadn't exactly been expecting him to because she imagined that he considered such things to be trifle and therefore uninteresting and unworthy of conversation. But at the same time, she wouldn't have been surprised if he _had _asked. As private as he was, Jonathan could be a total gossip sometimes. Funny, seeing how he had once chastised her for gossiping, but then, maybe he only liked to open up about certain topics. Or when he knew that he was talking to somebody who actually enjoyed listening to him. Or maybe it was just her. Maybe. She doubted it.

"So," she proposed, "what did you think of my article?"

She felt like a little girl, anxiously sitting there, hoping that he would say that he had liked it. Red and her father—other than that, there weren't many opinions that mattered to her. In truth, she wasn't entirely sure _why _she wanted to impress Jonathan—his intelligence, maybe, and his bitterly realistic outlook. And he had good taste. That was always a plus.

"As I said before, it was interesting. Your solution for helping a woman overcome agoraphobia was particularly intriguing."

"You think it was a bit much?"

"Me? No. But _the Harvard University Press _might think otherwise. They'll say you were endangering your subject's life."

"When she gave me her consent while knowing full well what she was getting into?"

"Repeatedly forcing her to be in public by handcuffing her to a cafeteria table? And then leaving her there until she hyperventilated almost to the point of going into cardiac arrest? They might consider that a little unorthodox."

"But I had her _consent_," she repeated, "and it _worked_. And now Marion Johansen can interact with other people without having any problems. So, if the experiment was a success, what does it matter how it was conducted?"

"You know," he said after a long moment, "you're very lucky that you work at Arkham. I can't think of another institution that would tolerate that sort of mindset."

She laughed. "Rose Hill didn't seem to mind it. Although I think they were just glad that they no longer had to give Johansen any special treatment. Her agoraphobia became so severe that she couldn't be in a room with even one person. We had to have our therapy sessions over an intercom. That's when Marion finally admitted that she needed help and asked me to do whatever it took to make her better."

"And there wasn't any persuasion on your part?"

"Ah…some, maybe, yes. The main thing is, I helped her get over her fear. The asylum wanted me to stay on, actually, after that. But, I feel better suited for Arkham."

"You're not afraid of working with deranged psychopaths every day?"

"Well, I'd have hardly applied for the job if I was, right?"

"Unless you're testing your theory on yourself," he queried. "Making yourself confront your fear, day after day, until you eventually conquer them?"

"That's possible," she admitted. "But no, no, I'm…I'm really okay with it. I'm just…not afraid of them—and I know, that's probably gonna get me killed someday, but what can you do? We're all gonna die, eventually. I may as well go out doing something I enjoy."

"You know, some would argue that you're being entirely too defensive to be telling the truth. Yet I get the impression that this isn't just bravado."

"Hopefully because it's not?" she guessed. "But anyway, I take it you agree with my methods?"

"Some of them are rather extreme, as I said before. But then, I've always argued that, in some cases, there is no other alternative. Although, I do have to wonder: Why _are _you so determined to conquer fear? Be it your own or another's, why are you against it?"

"Because most fears are all in our minds, and people give it too much power. I don't think it's right that we should let any one feeling control our lives. I mean, that isn't to say I'm against emotions because I think that bottling them up is just as unhealthy—"

"But some people feed on others' emotions. Look at Breedlove—he drove away his previous psychiatrists because he turned their own feelings against them."

"Yeah, but I'll bet that was just because they let him _know _that he'd gotten to them. See, you can't do that."

"No… Especially not with the people we treat," he smirked. "As trained psychiatrists, they should have known that."

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" she asked, amused. "But, anyway, as I was saying, I'm not exactly _against _fear. Sometimes it's a good thing to feel. It keeps us out of trouble—"

"No," he interjected with a sharpness that surprised her. "That's not fear. That's rationality, caution. People often mistake that for fear, but the two are very different. There was an entire paragraph about it in your article."

"That's a good point," she agreed after a moment. "I'll be sure to fix that, then."

"I would," he advised. "Now, convincing though your theory may be, I feel that, stylistically, your article is lacking. You're not going to make much of an impact if you continue to use so many run-on sentences and simplistic words…"

* * *

"Have you seen the latest addition to Gooding's decor?" Harleen said one day when they had both happened to sneak into the deserted employee lounge for water. Neither of them wanted to deal with the rest of the staff commenting on their eating habits (or lack thereof).

"You mean the rather phallic paperweight that he has sitting on his desk? How could I not?" He straightened, shutting the refrigerator door and holding out her bottle of Fiji water. "If you ask me, he's compensating for something."

"I think Freud would definitely agree."

He pursed his lips in distaste, letting his feelings toward the Austrian neurologist be known. Harleen smiled a little.

"Not a fan?"

"Of an impotent cocaine addict who claimed that sexual intercourse is at the root of everything we think and do? No."

She nodded. "I've always liked Jung better, and Lacan. Freud lost me when he said that all women are inherently masochistic when is only true for _some_. Others are created and most aren't into pain at all. Then he had to pose that theory about everyone secretly wanting a super cock."

He nearly choked on his sip of water, and took the time to calmly swallow before asking, "I take it you mean the phallus?"

"Yes," she affirmed. "What's really annoying is that he was so vague, you don't know if he was being literal or metaphorical. Either way, I know I'm not suffering from penis envy. I don't need the power they represent, and I certainly don't want a real one."

Well, this was intriguing.

"You're telling me you don't desire the inherent strength that comes with being born male?" he inquired sarcastically.

"I'm guessing you've never read _The SCUM Manifesto?_ Granted, I think it was meant to be a satire, but it argues that men are actually the weaker sex because their junk is right out there, highly susceptible to kicks and punches and baseballs."

"'Junk,'" he repeated.

"Your genitalia," she explained.

"I figured as much, but that is a good point. Not that many people realize it. Otherwise, I imagine women would have come into power by now."

"We _are_ empowered, we just don't know that, either. I mean, we can _reproduce_—and now we don't even need men to do it."

"Also true. I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't ready myself for a lesbian takeover."

She hummed a little in amusement. "Not only that, but—and this is a horrible thing to say—but the things men do for pretty women. Just like the song."

At once, an image of his mother flashed in his mind, causing a searing hatred to well within him. He clenched his jaw.

"That does not mean that you should use your looks to attain your desires, especially when you won't always have them."

She seemed to sense his vexation and backpedaled. "I know. I'm just saying, it's a sign of how weak some men are when they're willing to buy an attractive girl a new car if she sleeps with them."

"It's pathetic on both ends."

"Not if the girl knows the other ways to get what she wants," she returned coolly.

_Lies, manipulation, blackmail, extortion_... He watched her, curious in spite of himself.

"It isn't so bad if a girl doesn't rely too heavily on it. Besides, it's fitting. Sleazeballs who only care about a person's looks deserve to be used."

_Why you cold-hearted little minx, _he thought with something like approval, though now he knew for certain to be wary of her.

"And now I gotta ask," she went on. "Does everyone at Arkham think I got this job cuz I slept with Gooding?"

"That _does_ seem to be the accepted rumor. Although, you must admit, people will automatically make such assumptions, given the way you dress."

She arched an eyebrow. "You make it sound like I dress like a tramp." There was an amused lilt to her tone, but beneath that: indignation. Something he doubted that anyone else would have noticed, she hid it so well.

So, it seemed that one surefire way to annoy Harleen Quinzel was to criticize her sense of style. For a moment, he considered saying yes, pushing her to anger by pointing out all the ways in which her current outfit could be provocative. But then he remembered that he was trying to befriend this girl and earn her trust, and insulting her was not the way to go about that. Besides, it didn't seem right to criticize her wardrobe when she was, aside from himself, the only person at Arkham with any taste.

"You don't," he told her honestly. "It's just that...you do nothing to hide your...feminine attributes, either. And the other women at Arkham—"

"All four of them," she smirked wryly.

"—who feel that they have to cover up, don't care for the fact that you don't share their feelings." He rolled his eyes, begrudgingly admitting, "And it doesn't help that you dress well, either."

A grin slowly spread across her face and he had half a mind to rip it off and hand it to her.

"You mean that?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't," he answered stiffly.

"Well...thanks," she said modestly. "You always look nice, so I appreciate that."

So she _did_ value the opinions of _some_ people; they were simply few and far between. Now, why _he_ was one of those individuals was something he wanted to know.

A heavy sigh from her. "Do the other women here even realize that, by covering up, they aren't helping their situation? I'm not saying they should all dress like me—"

"Thank God. I'd hate to see Dr. Adams in what you've got on." He nodded to her dark gray and black plaid smock dress—an outfit that, really, would only look right on a very tiny girl like Harleen and not Ruth Adams. Trade her black heels and stockings for a pair of knee socks and flats and put her blonde hair in pigtails, and she would look about twelve years old.

She looked slightly appalled that he would say such a thing, but it was clearly a facade, especially when the corners of her mouth kept threatening to turn upward.

"That's mean," she scolded teasingly. "But, I'm saying that, by feeling that they have to dress like either a skank or a prude in a male-dominated environment, one is just as bad as the other because they're _both_ reinforcing sexist stereotypes and, either way, you're still dressing a certain way for men."

"That's why feminism will never work," he informed her. "That, and most women focus too much on emotional rather than political issues. "Well," he amended, "not just women. People in general let themselves be ruled by emotions rather than logic when it's best to remain detached."

"So I take it you don't think I should give my speech on how I don't wear what I wear to impress anybody, I wear it because I _like_ it?"

"Not unless you want Adams and the others to think that they've gotten to you. Although, the _worst_ thing you could do is conform to their dress code."

This time, Harleen looked genuinely appalled. He smirked a little.

"I take it that isn't going to happen, then?"

"_No_," she stated firmly. "It's funny, I'm uncomfortable wearing comfortable clothing in public. That isn't to say I _won't_ do it. And I'm okay with stuff like jeans and sweatshirts, but I don't like not wearing heels."

"As impractical as they are," he remarked. "They throw you off balance and make it difficult to run. If someone tried to attack you—"

"The high heels would save my life." She grinned widely. "It happened. And for the record, they aren't all that hard to run in, either."

He raised his eyebrows, uttering a meager "Oh" in response. He paused, scrutinizing her intently. "...you're not what everyone perceives you to be, are you? You come off as naïve, but you're really quite sure of yourself."

Hands on her hips, she cocked her head at him in amused disbelief.

"I knew it: You thought I was just another bubble-headed, blonde bimbo. Well, the joke's on you—I'm not even a real blonde. Not this blonde, anyway," she added, gesturing to her light-gold hair.

"Yes," he admitted, "but unlike most others, I know that that isn't true."

"Ah," she noted, fiddling with her Fiji water as they made for the exit. "That's... good to know, I think."

"It bothers you that someone's seen through your pretense?"

"No, no...because it's not really a pretense—not a deliberate one, anyway. People see me a certain way, and I...don't bother to correct them."

"You're not upset about being stereotyped?"

"No... I think it's a waste of time trying to prove myself to bunch of idiots."

They turned the corner, headed in the direction of his office.

"Besides," she continued, "you don't seem to mind when you're stereotyped."

"What do you mean?" he asked, unlocking the door to his office. Harleen rolled her eyes.

"If I have to hear Cavendish make another gay joke..." She shook her head. "And he's the one who wears ladies' underwear."

"You noticed that, too?"

"Well, he wasn't exactly discrete when he wore that red bra under a white shirt."

"True," he allowed. "And, no, I don't mind the stereotypes because I've long since grown accustomed to people assuming that I'm.." he thought for a moment "…a stuck-up, geeky fag who wouldn't last two seconds in a fight," he concluded, using some of the cruder insults that he knew had been made toward his person.

"If it helps, that's not what I thought when I met you."

"Really."

"Yeah. I just figured you were pretty smart."

"And why is that?"

She shrugged. "Well...mainly because, when you looked me over, I could tell that you were analyzing me instead of checking out my ass."

* * *

Normally, lunch was not part of his daily routine. In the unlikely event that he took the time to get something to drink, he hardly ever left the asylum for it. Today, however, was a special case, as he now found himself at a Borders, drinking Earl Grey tea while Harleen added cream to some fancy, foamy beverage that she insisted did not taste like coffee.

Earlier on, he had overheard yet another one of Dr. Gooding's pathetic attempts at wooing the blonde psychiatrist. The two had been standing in one of the hallways at Arkham, she in a terribly vulnerable position with her back against the wall and Gooding looming over her like a hungry wolf.

It might have been alarming, had he actually cared about her well being and had it not been obvious that the lecherous director (mistakenly) thought that he had the upper hand. Admittedly, there was something enjoyable about watching her use her deceptively naïve air to lure someone into a false sense of security. Really, people shouldn't have been so trusting. Or assumptive. Of course, he wasn't about to let Harleen do that to _him_, and he was looking forward to turning the tables on her. But for now, he would play along.

"Harley, you can't tell me you don't find this place suffocating at times," Gooding had said.

"I like it here," she had replied mildly.

Gooding had shaken his head, smiling down at her like she was a sweet, simple-minded child.

"Why don't you go _out_ for lunch, sometime? And if you ever wanted some company, I'm know there are plenty of doctors here that would be more than happy to join you."

"Y'know, that _isn't_ a bad idea." He had watched her blue eyes flicker over Gooding's shoulder and light up when they spotted him. "Jonny!" she greeted happily. "Would you wanna go get some coffee with me?"

He could have told her no and left her to suffer through an outing in some tacky, overpriced restaurant, listening to the director's off-color jokes and pathetic attempts at flattery. And, in truth, a part of him had wanted to do just that. However, that would have meant that he had done Gooding a favor.

So he had inclined his head politely, saying "I'd be happy to" as Gooding sputtered. To hell with it, he had figured. The other man was an arrogant womanizer who reminded him entirely too much of Nathan Shapiro. And Harleen was _his_ project, not a toy for Gooding to objectify.

And that was how he had ended up having lunch with Harleen, tucked away in a secluded corner of a bookstore café.

"Lapses in memory are hardly uncommon for mental patients, especially schizophrenics," he pointed out.

"Well, _yeah_… But I'm saying that it seems strange for a nymphomaniac to show no outward signs of her disorder and forget the times when she actually does."

"Is it only when she's around you that she's able to contain herself?"

"For the most part, yeah," she replied. "She has her moments, but they're rare—and mild compared to what everyone else has claimed."

He smirked. "Maybe you're just not her type."

It was very rewarding to see a normally pleasant person scowl like that. It really was.

"She brings up sex a lot, but she always seems sorta…detached about it. Like she's curious, but not in a sexual way? Other times, she gets really tense if I bring it up. Which makes me wonder how truthful the guards really are. I mean, _she _keeps coming on to _them?_ Like they're a bunch of saints or something? I know prison rape isn't as common with women, but it _does happen_, especially when the girl's mentally unstable. And when it's a nymphomaniac like April Cohen?" She shook her head. "Don't tell me the guys on duty aren't gonna encourage her, or at least do nothing to _dis_courage her." She huffed a little, staring moodily into her drink. "And I know the head of security's on good terms with you, but he seems to be the one she approaches the most. Given how rough he is with the other patients, I can't help but wonder..."

"Are you suggesting," he began carefully, "that Miss Cohen is being raped, and that Mr. Bolton is the one responsible?"

"I think he's the ring leader in a circus of sexual assault," was her tight reply. "That guy has way too much authority, and he knows it."

"Arkham hasn't experienced a breakout since Mr. Bolton was hired," he informed her before taking a sip of his tea. "I can't imagine that you want any of our patients running wild on the streets?"

"Of course not, it's just that—_Red!_"

Arching his eyebrows at her sudden outburst, he turned in his seat to find out who his colleague was waving at. Assuming Harleen wasn't color blind, it must been the tall, disgruntled-looking redhead in the drab trench coat.

Despite her intimidating stature, she seemed like the kind of woman who wanted nothing more than to disappear, feeling completely out of place with humankind. Granted, she visibly relaxed when she saw the little blonde, and even offered her a warm, weary smile that told him that this was someone who must have spent a great deal of time in Harleen's company (and that she should have been canonized for her tolerance level).

"Hi, Harley. Cutting class again?" the redhead queried as she strode up to their table.

"I could ask you the same thing, Pammy—and I didn't think you ate anywhere that wasn't organic?"

The redhead—'Pammy'—shifted uncomfortably.

"It was Jason's idea," she muttered, avoiding Harleen's gaze.

He expected the blonde to let out an obnoxious squeal and start gibbering about the man that her friend was there with, demanding details and gushing like a teenager. To his surprise, however, Harleen merely raised her brows, keeping her voice light.

"Really? Well, where is ol' Woody Drue?" she asked calmly, and he could tell that she was refraining from saying more.

"He'll be here, he's just looking for a book. I'm getting the coffee. Aren't—"

"You don't drink coffee," Harleen remarked in a would-be casual tone.

The other woman flushed, narrowing her sharp, green eyes. "I'm getting it for Jason."

Harleen looked rather surprised by this, but the redhead cut in before any questions were asked.

"Aren't you gonna introduce me?"

For the first time, he saw Harleen give someone a smile that wasn't entirely sincere.

"You've heard me talk about Dr. Crane?" She nodded to him. "Jonathan, this is my friend and roomie, Pamela Isley."

He was relieved when the redhead held up her hand in greeting, as there was no way that he would have shaken it; her nails were imbedded with dirt.

"You're second-in-command at Arkham, right?" she asked.

"Yes," he affirmed. "And yourself, Miss Isley?"

"I'm a botanist."

"One of the top botanists at Wayne Toxicology Labs," Harleen added with a smile (a real one, this time). "She's modest."

"Well, most people don't find plants very interesting," Isley explained with no small amount of bitterness. He made a mental note to never bring up the environment around this woman, who was clearly a tree-hugger to the extreme.

Harleen rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah? What about those hallucinogenic herbs you're working with? I thought they were pretty nifty."

Isley scowled at her. "That's only because you wanna get high off of them."

"Honey, when my best friend brings home some of the best weed known to man, I don't need anything else to get me high," Harleen teased in an undertone.

"I would hope that you never under the influence of any narcotics while you're at work," he cut in sharply, glaring sternly at the blonde.

There was a shared Look between the two women, as if to say 'See? Didn't I tell you?' and 'Yes, you were right' before turning back to him.

"Of course not, Jonny. I like to be lucid when working with psychopaths. Now, Dr. Bartholomew, on the other hand...if that guy doesn't have a morphine addiction..."

"Valium," he corrected automatically.

"Is that it? I knew it was one of the two. Figures the drug guy would know."

"Thanks for making me sound like a dealer," he replied sarcastically. "It's psychopharmacology."

"Yeah, try pronouncing that," she murmured. "But that's why Pammy's plants might interest you: She's working on developing these...well, you can explain it better than me," she said, turning to the botanist.

"They're all-natural mood regulators and enhancers—inhalants rather than pills. We've been trying to calm down paranoid, histrionic individuals and, at the same time, bring out emotions in those who feel they need it—like creating a sense of euphoria in people suffering from depression, or even a slight amount of Fear in those who are dangerously, uncontrollably reckless. If all goes well, we'll be able to prescribe them to the kind of people you guys deal with. It'll be more healthy, less addicting."

He tried not to sound too intrigued.

"May I ask, what specific herbs you're using in the mood enhancers?"

"Well, don't tell the FDA this just yet, but there _is_ a small amount of cannabis that goes into treating those with depression—shut up, Harley." She shot a glare at the smug-looking blonde.

"And the panic-inducing herb?" he pressed gently.

"It's a poppy, actually," Isley informed him. "The _schizophragma_ _erica_. It's rare. You can only find it in the mountains of Northern China, but it's highly effective. We're actually working on toning it down, since, from what we've gathered, it causes extreme tension as well as highly vivid hallucinations in people."

"How vivid, exactly?" he asked casually.

Isley shrugged. "It all depends on the mental state of the person and the amount of smoke that they inhale, but some have been quite...severe. Other than that, I'm not at liberty to say—classified information."

"Of course," he allowed. That was fine. He had gained more than enough information on the plant and already his mind was swimming with the possible effects it might have when combined with other panic-inducing chemicals.

"Now, Pamela, don't go giving away all our secrets. Wouldn't want a lawsuit on our hands," a pleasant voice chided. He watched as a tall, lean man stood beside Isley and nudged her gently. He was middle-aged with narrowed, mossy green eyes and thick, dark hair that was streaked with gray. He had a strong jaw and his teeth were slightly crooked, which gave him a devious air.

Isley blushed and gave the man a shy smile that seemed uncharacteristic of the woman who had spoken so boldly to Harleen.

_Speaking of which..._ She was hiding it well, but one look at his co-worker told him that she was not at all pleased by the newcomer's presence. Interesting.

"Jason, you remember Harley?" Isley said. He saw a warning flash in her green eyes as she glanced at the blonde.

"The charming Dr. Quinzel—how could I forget?" It wasn't quite a sneer, hovering between mocking and playful, though he had a feeling that it was the latter.

_Idiot_, he found himself thinking, picturing how entertaining it would be to watch Harleen pick this man apart. He hadn't quite been able to pinpoint what it was exactly, but there was something about the man that made him decidedly unlikable.

"This is Dr. Crane—he's a psychiatrist at Arkham with Harley," Isley explained.

"My God, they're giving everyone MDs, nowadays, aren't they?" The man laughed and introduced himself, "Dr. Jason Woodrue."

"Well, I suppose that earning a doctorate in psychiatry by the age of twenty-three really _isn't_ as impressive as earning one by the age of forty. After all, natural talent is nothing compared to years of experience," he returned snidely. Harleen giggled.

Woodrue barely contained a scowl as he remarked, "Well, I can certainly see why you two get along." He turned to Isley. "Shall we head out?"

The redhead was eager to nod her consent, clearly wanting to leave before the situation became too ugly. After watching the two depart, he turned around to see Harleen glaring daggers at Woodrue's retreating back.

"I get the impression that you don't approve of their relationship?" he ventured.

She scoffed, "They aren't in a relationship. He's hardly her type."

"Are you sure you aren't just saying that out of jealousy?" he continued.

"I'm not. Trust me."

_Not in a million years._

"Then what's the problem?" he said out loud.

Harleen merely sighed, staring over his shoulder.

"Nothing."

* * *

Something was up with Pammy.

Her friend had always been pro-feminism and reluctantly tolerant of men, advocating women's rights, girl power—all of that. If it involved the liberation of women, Red supported it. Shy thought she was, the botanist openly expressed her disgust for shallow, vapid girls who obsessed over their looks in order to bag a boyfriend or, worse yet, the ones who willingly gave up their own ambitions and happily devoted their lives to pleasing 'their man.'

So, of course, when they first met, Pammy had resented her, seeing her as a dumb blonde who's only passions were sex and shoes—not to say they _weren't_, but she did have other passions, as well. But as for Red, her attitude had changed when the other woman heard about her senior project: Her psychoanalysis professor, Dr. Ross, had encouraged her to conduct a social experiment, one that tested the effects of sexual attractiveness. Specifically that of young girls on older men. More specifically, the affect that _she _had on her forty-something professor of abnormal psychology, Dr. Harper. The man had always made advances—double entendres, sidelong looks, and the like—Dr. Ross had simply posed the idea that she start to encourage it. Lead him on, and see what it got her; offer sex for good grades.

To this day, she was unable to deny the appeal of the joke in the thought of an institution, a _university_, which should have been held to the highest standards, collapsing thanks to base lust. It really was quite funny.

Initially, Red had been against the idea (as had she), but the other woman had calmed down once she had explained Dr. Ross' reasoning behind such a demeaning experiment: Wasn't it exasperating to think that grades could be earned in such a way? It was something that many people assumed, but was it actually true? And if it was, why not exploit it? Get schools to crack down on pervy instructors and let women know that acting like sluts wouldn't earn them degrees.

"Because, quite franky, I'm sick of seeing bimbos with doctorates," Ross had concluded bitterly. "And let's be honest, Harley, that's what people are going to think when you earn yours. So you may as well get something out of that assumption."

It had been a bit more personal than that, for both Ross, who had recently discovered that her husband of thirteen years had cheated on her with his twenty-six-year-old secretary, as well as she, herself, who had explained her dislike for dirty old men to Pammy as carefully as she could. Truthfully, she was much more interested in seeing how much power she, a seemingly powerless individual, had over the brilliant, intuitive Dr. Harper. Just how great was his weakness for the fairer sex?

"Shit, Harl," the redhead had finally muttered. "If that's the case, you should do it."

"It's wrong," she had reminded her.

"Yeah," her friend had agreed. "You should still do it."

As it turned out, the other woman had a long history of bad relationships, starting with her parents. A domineering, abusive dad and an intelligent but subservient mom—both emotionally distant with little Pammy. Then, there had been that incident with Uncle Rodger when she had first begun to 'blossom into a woman,' so to speak. Red had been vague about what, exactly, had transpired, but she had been able to surmise that, thankfully, it hadn't been anything _too _serious. Just a few suggestive remarks and perhaps some groping—not the worst that she had ever heard, but enough to turn Pamela off of men.

Which brought her to the current predicament: Jason Woodrue. She had only met the man a handful of times, but it didn't take much for anyone to see that he was a controlling, demeaning, untrustworthy—

_Creeper_, she concluded. Admittedly, the epithet was somewhat childish, but it really was the best way to describe Woodrue.

What was truly disconcerting was the fact that Red seemed to trust him. While the other woman had never taken a single psychology class, she was still quite intuitive.

_Well, not intuitive so much as wary. Of everyone. Especially men._

Yet Pammy hung on Woodrue's every word, clearly enraptured. Okay, so 'enraptured' was an exaggeration, but still. A life-long man-basher who suddenly started liking a guy who openly insulted her _female _friends? To someone who knew Pammy, the change was startling enough to warrant some dramatization.

Even physically, Woodrue wasn't her friend's type. True, he was taller than Red, who had always been sensitive about her super model height, but he had that five o'clock shadow thing going on, and Pammy _hated _that, and in fact, vehemently expressed her hatered for it whenever the hot, new male celebrity sported one when he made an appearance on _Chelsea Lately_. And Woodrue was also skinny—and not in a graceful and delicate way like Jonathan, but reedy and twitchy.

_Like a coke addict._

And Red didn't like skinny men. Body builders—anyone strong enough to pick her up and throw her down a flight of stairs—she liked even less, but she still had a lot of animosity for skinny guys. They made her seem even bigger—that was what Red thought, anyway. Apparently, her father had always humiliated her by insulting her looks, calling her homely or giving her hell whenever she was eating something, saying she was too fat, too tall, too clumsy, too ugly…

Pammy always assured her that she knew that this wasn't true, and maybe she did. But the damage had still been done, and that initial sense of insecurity was extant within her friend (regardless of all the feminist books and women's studies classes) and probably always would be.

She could have castrated Pammy's dad for that. It wasn't as if she was the type of woman who constantly assured her self-conscious friend that she wasn't overweight or unattractive or whatever, even though it was true. Pammy really was one of those rare people who was naturally very pretty.

And though she had never _heard _Woodrue tell Red that she was fat, he seemed like the kind of guy who would. Loudly. And in public.

He was just…_wrong_ for Pammy, and she couldn't figure out what the attraction was. It wasn't like the old adage 'Opposites attract,' either. Those two simply didn't match. Physically, morally, and in personality—they were incompatible. For Pamela Isley, a person such as Jason Woodrue represented everything that was wrong with the male population.

_Besides_, she thought bitterly, _everyone knows that Red likes girls._

_

* * *

_

He had to admit, one good thing about associating himself with Harleen Quinzel was her friend, Pamela Isley. Thanks to the glorified botanist's information regarding the _schizophragma_ _erica_, his toxin was closer to perfection than it had ever been before.

Of course, it hadn't been easy to obtain the little blue poppy. He hardly had the means to break in to Wayne Toxicology Labs and steal some samples, nor did he think that Isley would let him have any if he asked. However, after several months of extensive research, he had been able to track down the exact location in Northern China where the plant seemed to thrive. He had decided to make the voyage himself, not trusting anyone else with the task. There had been too great a risk of rousing suspicion; after all, what did a psychiatrist at a mental institution want with a rare, hallucinogenic flower that grew near the mountains of Bhutan?

So he had taken the trip, informing Dr. Gooding that he was taking a vacation ("Yes, finally," he had sarcastically agreed to the director's astounded response), though never disclosing just where he had spent his time.

Initially, aside from the weather, the trip had gone well. One would think that, having spent most of his life without an ounce of body fat, he would have grown accustomed to the cold, but he supposed that there was no helping it, as the bitterly frigid climate of Bhutan had cut him straight to the bone. He had soon learned, however, that that was the least of his worries.

Or it should have been when a group of ninjas—yes, _ninjas_—broke in to his lodgings and kidnapped him. Really, it had all been quite overdramatic. They had hardly needed to render him unconscious—he would have gone quietly, had they only answered his questions—but they had gone ahead and administered the sleeper hold, anyway.

At the time, he had been on the phone with Harleen, getting an update on how the asylum was fairing—apparently, most of his responsibilities (rather, Gooding's) had been thrust upon her by the lazy administrator—when his abductors had made their presence known.

It had been almost amusing, when they had grabbed him, to listen to as Harleen's voice had risen to a nearly panicked tone, asking "Jonny? …Jonathan? Are you there? _Jonathan?_" again and again.

Amusing, he had thought calmly when on the verge of blacking out, because, surely, it must have been a front.

He supposed that a lesser man _would _have been frightened and, admittedly, having never been in such a situation before, he _had _been somewhat startled. But only at first. Whether she had been working in the name of God or not, his grandmother had been an expert in the art of torture both physical and psychological. The belt, the bathtub, the root cellar, the birds—all terrifying, yes, but her _words_… She had always known exactly what to say, what poison-laced utterance would dig the deepest and ferment within his subconscious.

So when the men shroud in their black shinobi shozoku had come for him, after the initial shock had worn off, he had found himself slipping into the well-practiced calm that had taken him years to achieve, feeling nothing but intrigue and mild annoyance at having been treated so roughly.

When he awoke, he had found himself rather disappointed at the cliché set-up: a cold, barren room with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, and him sitting in the middle of it, tied to a chair. His lack of Fear had surprised his captors, though they had hidden it well. Predictably, he had been bombarded with questions (some in English, some not), all of which he had politely refused to answer until he spoke with the man in charge.

As far as ninja kidnappers went, overall, Ra's al Ghul had been a pleasant individual, in spite of his penetrating, storm-gray eyes and strong physique. Listening and answering, never doing one more than the other—he had appreciated that, quickly realizing that the older man was quite intuitive, even without academic training. Perhaps, had they been under different circumstances, he could have imagined some saying that Ra's al Ghul had had an almost…fatherly air about him. It was his manner of speaking: soft and gentle, and polite, very straightforward for all the mystery that shrouded him. He had gotten the impression that what he was told had been the absolute truth, but he knew better than to be lured in by the rugged charm, inviting though it had been. Not when it was clear that the man had severed all of his emotional ties when he had decided to join the League of Shadows.

Or so the ninjas called themselves. They hadn't been pleased that he had intended to steal their crop—overcoming Fear by burning _schizophragma_ _erica_ and inhaling its smoke was part of their training process, or so Mr. al Ghul had told him. What they were curious to know, the older man had explained, was why _he _was after it.

They knew a great deal about him—though nothing, he had noted with relief, truly incriminating. All of their information could have easily been gleaned from a quick visit to Google. They knew that he had attended college after receiving a full-ride scholarship from an esteemed member of the neurology department at Mercy General Hospital; that he had earned his doctorate by the age of twenty-two, joint majoring in psychology and psychiatry; and that, while his main field of interest had been psychopharmacology, he had chosen to write his thesis on the origins of Fear, a subject that he continued to study to this very day. There were several other details—his address, his birthplace, his work schedule—that might have given him cause for alarm, but his major concern had been the private research that he conducted at the asylum. And if they didn't know why he wanted their flowers, they didn't know about his experiments. Good. But they—much, he reflected, like Harleen—had their theories. His specializing in psychopharmacology, his interest in Fear, and the fact that he was there looking for a terror-inducing poppy—it hadn't taken them long to form an idea as to what he might have been up to.

"Your daring methods and new ideas on the subject of Fear greatly intrigue me, Dr. Crane," Ra's had informed him, "as does your interest in our blue flowers. It makes me wonder it would be the first hallucinogen you've experimented with?"

So, they had talked. Business, mostly—Ra's had vaguely explained the shady duties of the League, and he had given him the most basic descriptions of the drugs that he had created. The older man had been especially interested when he had brought up his toxin.

"That's why you're interested in the poppies."

"From what I've gathered, exposure to them causes increased heart rate, shortness of breath, irrational panic…all of the sensations of Fear." He had paused "…as well as hallucinations. Like any similar opiate, this combined with the overall feeling of anxiety is going to create negative, frightening images, though the person still retains some lucidity. However, I am interested to see how long that would last if I were to add the plant to my toxin. I feel that the effects would be much more vivid, making it nearly impossible to distinguish the hallucinations from reality. And, undoubtedly, it would prolong the effects, as well."

"It could be permanent."

"If given a large enough dose—and if an antidote is not administered in time—yes, it would be permanent."

"And you are willing to do what it takes to test this theory? Even if it means compromising your principles?"

"If Edward Jenner hadn't compromised his principles and infected an eight-year-old boy with cowpox, then we wouldn't have the smallpox vaccine," he had replied smoothly. "In other words, yes, I am willing to do what it takes."

"And may I ask what it is about Fear that fascinates you? What drives you to conduct these experiments?"

"The same reason that you and your men consider it a vital part of your training: I wish to overcome it. Fear has a power that it does not deserve and too many people are ruled by it. That's something that I hope to change with my experiments. Repeatedly forcing patients that suffer from paranoid delusions to face their fears is the first step in their recovery. They can't make any progress until they learn that there is no need to be afraid."

Listening to their screams had its benefits, too, but he had decided to omit that small detail.

"Interesting…" Ra's had mused. "Please—go on."

In the end, aside from the kidnapping, the meeting had gone fairly well. He had been allowed to leave no more worse for wear, and an alliance of sorts had been made, one with the League agreeing to supply him with a small amount of _schizophragma_ _erica_ and his agreeing to be in touch the moment he had perfected his toxin.

Which, he could now confidently say, had happened just last week. As much as he would have loved to have sent that brat Daniel Wallace into an irreversible state of panic, he knew that it was better to try the new compound on someone who hadn't been subjected to any of his earlier batches of toxin. Normally, he reserved his experiments for the higher level patients—rapists, serial killers, child molesters—or people that annoyed him, like Wallace. But this time he had needed someone (relatively) sane and nonviolent, and Thomas Schiff in room 271 had proved an excellent test subject. Before, the man had been a functional schizophrenic committing petty acts of theft until the police had caught him. And now, after a dose of the new toxin, Schiff was a perfect example of paranoid schizophrenia. Seven days later and the man was still shaking, looking over his shoulder, jumping at every sound—and he'd even been given the antidote! Of course, with an unstable mind like Schiff's, this wasn't a real surprise, but _still_. He hadn't even bothered to conceal how pleased he was with his latest accomplishment. After all, it wasn't every day that one had a breakthrough in their life's work, though there were now questions floating around the asylum, whispered theories as to what in the hell could have put him, of all people, in such a good mood. Not even Dr. Adams' hushed declaration of "I'll bet he's finally sticking it to someone" had vexed him.

Then, a disgruntled Dr. Gooding had caught him and half-stated, half-ordered that he meet with the director after work that day. They needed to _talk_, apparently.

Now, he stood outside the man's office (_As instructed_, he thought scornfully), poised to knock—the door was partially open—but then he heard his name:

"…not trying to put down Dr. Crane, but I'm just saying, _be careful_. Shady characters like that—"

"I'm sorry?"

"—they see a young woman such as yourself, and…try to take advantage of her."

"I'm…not sure I follow you…"

Dr. Gooding was a letch, through and through, he silently declared, revulsion churning as he watched Arkham's director lean into the girl's personal space.

"You're very pretty, Harley. Does Dr. Crane ever tell you that?"

Brows arched.

_What does that have to do with anything—?_

"What does that have to do with anything, James?" Harleen asked in a frosty tone that he had never heard before. And he was secretly pleased that she had referred to Gooding as 'James,' and not 'Jimmy' or 'Jamie' or something of that ilk. It was familiar, but not personal like whatever it was that she thought she had with _him_.

"I'm saying that," Gooding went on, "you're young and attractive, and that's all men like him care about—they aren't looking for something _real_, though they'll tell you whatever you want if it'll benefit _them_."

"Ahm…I don't see why he would comment on my physical appearance," Harleen remarked. "I don't think he's even interested in that at all, actually."

With the way the man froze at that sentence, an idiot could tell that Gooding had scraped together enough sense to realize that his current approach wasn't working; time to employ a new tactic.

"Beauty _isn't _important, my dear, but if he never once tells you how pretty you look…well, what sort of person is _that?_ It's really quite insensitive."

Lips pursed. Was Gooding really so much of a dullard that he hadn't realized that Harleen wouldn't fall for such flattery? Of course she appreciated being told that she was attractive, as any woman did, but it was clear that she preferred to be complemented on her mind and her skills.

"James," and now there was no hiding the irritation in her tone, "if you're trying to tell me something, I would rather you just said it. Please."

"I've seen you spending time with him, talking, going out to lunch… I know you like him, Harley, I understand that."

He rolled his eyes. _You don't understand a damn thing_.

"But quite frankly, I'm worried for you. As I said before, Dr. Crane is a shady character—and I know you women are attracted to a bit of _mystery, _but you have to think _seriously_. No one really knows that much about him, he rarely associates with any of the other doctors—"

"There's nothing wrong with him liking his privacy, and as for the other doctors, well…some of them aren't the most appealing individuals, are they?"

Was she actually defending him? Unlikely. Skilled manipulator though he was, after a lifetime of letdowns and betrayals, he knew better than to think that anyone would be loyal to him. Still… The way her eyes flashed a warning…they could become quite hard for such a soft shade of blue. Gooding was oblivious, but then, he never looked at her eyes.

"Be that as it may, keep what I've said in mind. Believe me, I've worked with the man for the past two years. I know him better than you do."

He could have laughed out loud at that. He really could have.

Instead, he observed with disgust as Gooding placed his hand on Harleen's knee.

"I don't want you to get hurt."

The director's wandering hand slid just a little farther up, now resting on her thigh and he felt a rush of…certainly not _pride_…respect, perhaps…amusement, definitely…as Harleen made a point of crossing her legs so that Gooding had no choice but to recoil.

"I appreciate your—hm—concern," she told him lightly, "but I really can take care of myself. And, as far as relationships go…at the moment, I'm not all that interested—in anyone." She got to her feet, flashing a tight smile. "So you don't have to worry."

Gooding's jovial grin didn't quite reach his eyes, but for once, he seemed to have gotten the hint.

"Well, I can't help it." A sweaty hand at the small of her back made his own skin crawl as the director led her to the door. "I've invested a lot in you, my dear."

Letting out a polite (and forced) laugh, Harleen quickly stepped outside the office, face brightening when she saw him standing across the hall. And, really, he couldn't help the cool smirk that graced his features as he watched Gooding's face fall, spectacularly hurt and pathetic, his pallor a terrible clash of gray and red.

"I'll be with you in five minutes, Jonathan," he stated roughly before closing the door with a little more force than necessary. Grin broadening, he glanced at Harleen.

"Guess what? I'm not gonna be here, Friday," she told him. "Gooding's scheduled me to give a lecture at good ol' Gotham U."

"So nice of him to inform you ahead of time," he remarked.

"Hey, I've got, what? Less than forty-eight hours? I can whip something together by then." She rolled her eyes. "Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate the gesture."

"I rather think that Dr. Gooding had hoped you'd be a little _more _appreciative," he hinted mildly.

"Yeah, well… If that was his goal, then he shouldn't have told me that I'm just replacing the guy who backed out."

"That _was _rather tactless of him," he agreed and sneered a little. "Have fun."

"Oh, I'm looking forward to it," she responded sarcastically.

"Well, just remember—a sea of blank faces is only intimidating until you plant your feet and stare them down."

"You know, I think I heard on the animal channel that apes interpret that as a gesture of dominance."

"That's what I meant."

"You're not one of those 'young people are our greatest hope' kinda guys, are you?" she inquired, grinning up at him.

"Not when college students have proven, time and again, that they are some of rudest, most self-centered individuals on the planet," he returned. "In any case, if glaring at them doesn't work, I suggest bringing a loaded handgun and then firing it off when they start to look bored."

He watched, feeling rather cocky, as her jaw dropped just a little.

"…that? That would be hilarious."

"I thought so."

"I should do that…" she murmured thoughtfully.

"Don't."

"I've got a handgun."

"Again, _don't_," he advised, suddenly realizing that this was how Harleen's conversations with Pamela Isley seemed to go. Which was probably a good thing, if he ever wanted her to trust him, but the thought still caused a small amount of pressure behind his eyes that suggested the beginning of a migraine.

"I didn't know you cared," she teased.

"Don't flatter yourself, Harleen."

"You're terrible."

"I know—" His sentence was cut short when Gooding's door opened and the director poked his head through, giving him a sharp nod before disappearing again.

He looked back at Harleen.

"I'll see you later."

Smiling in that irritatingly secretive way, she mouthed the words 'Be nice' and then she was on her way. Sighing quietly to himself, he slipped inside Gooding's office.

"Good evening," the director said tonelessly, a paltry imitation of Alfred Hitchcock. Which reminded him—he still needed to decide whether to accept or decline Harleen's offer of a Hitchcock movie marathon that weekend.

"Take a seat," Gooding instructed, gesturing to a hideous orange armchair that matched the equally tacky couch. Something truly needed to be done about that horrid retro décor.

"What is this about?" he asked casually, face betraying nothing, though instinct told him to be on his guard, the situation would soon take an unpleasant twist.

"I'll cut to the chase," the director said, folding his hands atop the blonde laminate desk. "I know about your experiments."

He remained impassive, but in the back of his mind, the Scarecrow shifted restlessly.

"Dr. Gooding, I believe that you knew of my radical psychiatric treatments when you hired me."

"I didn't say _treatment_, Crane, I said _experiments_."

He removed his glasses, sighing a little.

"Very well. In that case, I'm afraid I'll have to claim ignorance. What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb when we both know you aren't," Gooding spat, his façade of good humor completely wiped away. "I've received complaints from several patients—"

"May I ask which ones?"

"That's irrelevant."

"I disagree," he countered smoothly. "As I'm sure you've realized, this is a _mental institution._ The delusional and the compulsive liars are hardly reliable sources of information."

"I'm not talking about the real wackos." Gooding's voice rose slightly. "I'm talking about Level Three and Four patients—people who haven't completely lost it."

"Everyone responds to treatment differently," he continued. "You know as well as I do that, while initially they may not like it, in the end, it's for the best—"

"Stop pretending to be the compassionate doctor. Daniel Wallace has been ranting for weeks about how you've been injecting him with homemade drugs—using him as a _test_ _subject_."

Wallace. He should have known.

"Daniel is a highly imaginative boy, prone to outbursts and delusions—"

"I've received phone calls from his parents, demanding to see him. Apparently, _you _told them that visiting their only son would be disruptive toward his _therapy_."

"He killed Alicia Edwards, a girl that he was reported to have felt strong affection toward. I thought it imperative to isolate him from his loved ones in order to—"

"And he claims that you told him that his family disowned him?" Gooding demanded.

_Not disowned. I simply said that they didn't _love _him._

The Scarecrow snickered.

As the other man continued his tirade, he tilted his head to the side in thought. This was rather curious… Surely, this wasn't the first time that Gooding had received complaints about experimental narcotics and psychological torture? Not when he had been practicing at Arkham for over two years. No… Something must have come up, something to make the older doctor want rid of him... Now, what could it have been…?

_Ah_, he realized as a pretty, blonde image came to mind._ Of course. Gooding, you truly are a letch, and a jealous one at that._

"Enough, Crane," the director suddenly pronounced. "It's gone too far—just how long did you expect to keep this up?" He shook his head, putting on a good show of being disappointed. "Actions such as these undoubtedly warrant an arrest. However, I've decided against getting the law involved—it would ruin the asylum's reputation."

_Not nearly as much as you've ruined it_, he thought snidely.

"And rather than terminate your position here, I'm giving you the chance to quietly resign," Gooding concluded. "I suggest you take it, and then afterward, get down on your knees and thank me for being so lenient."

There was a heavy pause in which the two men could only watch each other, one glaring contemptuous daggers, the other meeting his look with an unaffected, glacial stare.

Finally, he broke the silence, quirking his brows expectantly.

"Was that all that you wanted to tell me?" he asked, fingering the rough burlap that was tucked away inside his suit jacket. "Because I don't think that I'll be doing any of what you suggested."

For a moment, Gooding's nostrils flared in annoyance, but then his face slowly morphed into an arrogant smirk. "Then you leave me no choice but to fire you."

"No, I don't believe that _that _will be happening, either," he replied, feeling the secure weight of his canister of fear toxin press against his hip as he slowly rose from the ugly armchair. Turning it into an inhalant had been a good move on his part, especially after the incident with Daniel Wallace. True, it wasn't as fast acting as injections were, but the effects were felt, nonetheless.

"I'm warning you, Crane—I'll call the police," Gooding snarled.

"Now, James, don't insult me with your empty threats. I do wonder, though," he added, reaching for his mask. "Would you like a demonstration?"

It had been a good week, he reflected over the Scarecrow's piercing laughter, as together they watched Dr. Gooding scream and writhe on the brown shag rug. Really, what with the perfecting of his fear toxin and the unfortunate and unexpected mental collapse of Arkham's head administrator, he would say that, yes. All in all, it had been a very good week.

* * *

Again, word to the wise: Don't try and pull one over Dr. Crane, kids. On the other hand, yay, now Jonny gets to be the one running the show!

On a different note, sorry if the two feminism-centric scenes were a bit preachy. That wasn't my intention, though I feel that they might have come off that way. Honestly, though I am a feminist, I don't consider Harley to be one (if anything, she's an egalitarian, which will really become apparent when she starts killing people), nor am I trying to press my views upon you guys. If anything, I meant for those scenes to show how devious the two main characters can be, using an admirable cause as a guise to further their own means. In the name of science! …or not.

Also, I hope that the part where Jonathan gets hooked up with the League of Shadows didn't seem too rushed. I wanted to at least explain it, but never intended to really go into a lot of detail as the main focus of the story is Crane and Harley at Arkham and how they came to be there.

Notes

_How to Win Friends and Influence People _– is taken from the title of the self-help book by Dale Carnegie. On slightly related note, _How to Lose Friends and Alienate People _is an entertaining memoir/one-man play (originally starring Jack Davenport :D) by Toby Young as well as a (highly fictionized) film of the same name.

April Cohen – for no real reason, even before I'd developed the character, I found her endearing. Much like 'Stephen' the creeper from Ch. III, actually. And I like to think that, when Jonny's fear toxin is released into the Narrows and all of the patients at Arkham escape, those two somehow run into each other, hook up, and rule the slums together as King and Queen of the Narrows. Yeah. Well, _I _think it's cute, anyway, though I'm told that my idea of what's cute tends to be a bit bizarre…

"I kinda wanna eat her head." – this is based on my own, personal feelings whenever a certain friend of mine expresses his frustration toward me by acting like he's a parent/teacher speaking to a child, including shaking his finger and saying things like "You need to take some time to think about what you did." It's frustrating because he's dead serious when he does this. Which makes me want to eat his head. And, like Harley, that's really the only way I can describe how I feel about it. :-P

_Hiroshima Mon Amour_ – is a 1959 French film about a French actress who falls in love and has an affair with a Japanese architect while making a movie in post-war Hiroshima. It's not…bad, but it isn't my favorite. You guys can decide for yourselves, though, if you want; the whole thing is available to watch on YouTube.

_Un chien andalou_ – is sixteen minutes long, silent, French, co-produced by Salvador Dali, and is considered to be one of the best-known surrealist films of the 1920s avant-garde movement. The best way I've heard it describe is like a dream because it's very disjointed. There is no plot. The movie opens with a woman having her eye slit open by a razor and just kinda goes from there, making much use of Freudian free association. It, too, can be found on YouTube.

Spanish (or possibly German; maybe Latin) – in the US, most public schools only offer French and Spanish, and, oftentimes, they don't begin teaching foreign languages until kids are in high school. Which is a shame because studies have shown that, if a person begins to learn a second language after the age of nine, then it becomes more difficult for them to pick it up and retain what they've learned, and fluency is a near impossibility. Oh, and the fact that most teachers seem to only focus on reading and writing rather than listening and speaking doesn't make things any easier. Plus, it's often made out like learning another language is a chore, which isn't right either. Long story short, America's system for teaching a foreign language sucks. Royally sucks. End rant of the day.

Spanish because of the promise that it was easier – this is why I took (and continue to take) French, and also because I just like the language and the culture. :-P When I got this inexplicable idea that Jonathan could speak French (long before I learned that Mr. Murphy is actually fluent, lucky bastard), I tried to think of a good reason for it. This was what I came up with. That, and I think that, in his own way, he's slightly masochistic because he always pushes himself to take the harder classes. Though, in his defense, the other courses are probably too easy, his being a genius an' all.

penis envy – this is Sigmund Freud's theory that, when they're approximately between ages 3.5 and 6, little girls start to have sexual feelings for their moms. But then they realize that they can't have a heterosexual relationship with their Mommy because they don't have penises. Thus, little girls begin to wish that they had A Dick of Their Own (kinda like Woolf's _A Room of One's Own_ only…not) so that they can be strong like men. Or they simply want the power that that it represents. Freud was never exactly clear on this. Anyway, at this point, we get into the Electra complex because the little girl thinks that Mom's to blame for her lack of a penis and thus turns her sexual impulses toward her daddy. In case anyone was wondering, that was a cleaned up, less disjointed version of the definition from my notes on psychoanalytical criticism. The lame slang words really do make it easier to remember the terms and definitions. :-)

the phallus – aka, 'the **SUPER COCK,**' and, yes, that's how I wrote it in my notes, too. Hey, if it helps come exam time… Anyway, this is from Jacques Lacan, who came up with the idea that penises and The Phallus were two different things. Basically, he said that dicks were dicks, but the SUPER PENIS is the ultimate symbol of power to both men and women. However, it's also a transcendental signified, which means that it's something that everybody wants but can never attain—you can't even buy it on _Shop Erotic_. Although, he said that boys have _some _claim to The Phallus because they at least have penises.

_The SCUM Manifesto_ – is a misandry, supposedly satirical tract written by Valerie Solanas (who is probably best known for shooting Andy Warhol) that advocates the complete gendercide of men. It's an interesting read, to say the least, and also kind of funny at times. And another fun fact is that Solanas went on to spend the rest of her life in and out of mental institutions. I don't know if that could be considered foreshadowing or ironic or what, but…yeah. Interesting that Harley's read her stuff. :-P

"…pretty women. Just like the song" – the song that Harley's referring to is "Pretty Women" from the musical _Sweeney Todd_. On another note, Mrs. Lovette inspired a lot of my Harley's personality, especially their relationships with the men that they love.

stockings – come on, we all know that Harley totallywears stockings instead of tights. Though, how Jonathan knows this is a mystery to me.

"That's why feminism will never work." – in a weird way, I almost see Jonathan as being something of a feminist because, thanks to his mother, he despises the idea of women only being concerned about looking beautiful and finding a husband. And, for the same reasons, I also think he's somewhat of a misogynist. Go figure.

"…they aren't all that hard to run in, either." – they _aren't_. Just saying. It's easier to run in heels than flip-flops, at any rate.

"Not this blonde, anyway," – because I wanted to use that quote, but for some reason, I'm stuck on Harley being a natural blonde.

"And he's the one who wears ladies' underwear." – to anyone who's read _Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth_, you might understand where I got this idea. To anyone else, just chalk it up to all of the doctors at Arkham being almost as out of it as their patients. …and also, go read _Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth_, even though Harley isn't in it and Jonathan only shows up for, like, one page.

"…checking out my body." – y'know, it is _really_ hard to keep them from flirting with one another. And half of their dialogue probably makes it sound like they are, anyway. Although, with Harley, that works since I want her to sound kind of flirtatious without really meaning to be. But seriously, this entire scene read like it was going to end in sex.

"That's only because you wanna get high off of them." – I'm not sure if it'll seem weird that Harley would smoke dope or not. To me, it seems plausible, especially for a Nolan-verse Harley, but then, this might just be one of those things (like Jonny's toy bunny) that I feel fits the character even though I've got nothing to support it. On that note, while I can easily imagine her getting stoned, I have a hard time picturing Harley messing with harder drugs or even getting drunk.

Dr. Bartholomew – I think he might have just been on BtAS, but I'm not sure. Anyway, though, that's the only place I remember him from, and he always seemed entirely too relaxed to be working in a place like Arkham. I mean, Harley and Jonny are cool and collected, but at the same time, they both get a huge rush out of working with the crazies day after day. Bartholomew, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be fazed by anything. So…yeah. Valium addict. This also goes along with Cavendish the closeted cross-dresser and the idea that it seems obvious to Harley and Jonathan, even though none of their colleagues really pick up on anything.

_schizophragma__erica_ – I don't know if this is canon or not. It always bugged me that they never gave us an official name for the trippy, blue "Fear Flower" in _Batman Begins_, so I searched the web until I came across a fanfic that called it this. And, for the life of me, I cannot remember what that fic is called, who wrote it, or where to find it, but know that the Latin name for the flower is not my creation (though that _was _what I was going to do, originally :-P).

Dr. Jason Woodrue – admittedly, I know very little of Woodrue other than he manipulated Pammy until she consented to take part in his experiments. The only thing that I really have to go by, unfortunately, is Wikipedia and his brief appearance in _Batman and Robin_. Needless to say, I intend to make my version much different from the latter. Hopefully he's okay.

…offer sex for good grades – I know that it's heavily implied in cannon, but I really debated before deciding to go with this idea, mainly because I didn't think that it fit my characterization of Harley. That, and when I initially read about her having slept her way through college, I was kind of annoyed because I didn't like the idea of her using her looks to get her way; I really wanted her to be smarter than that. But at the same time, I was worried about making her seem too intelligent to be believable and I wanted to make it clear that she had questionable ethics long before she met the Joker. So, I got to thinking that, if cannon Harley _did _screw for her grades, it might not have been because she didn't have a natural talent for psychiatry, but because she was a little lacking in academia, which is the case for a lot of people. That works for cannon, but it still doesn't quite go along with the way I've set up my Harley, who's a natural shrink but clearly knows her stuff through studying, too, and is proud that she didn't have to bang anyone to get her Ph. D. Then the 'social experiment' idea came along, and the thought that she _did _use sex for grades but there's actually a darker, more complex reasoning behind it really seemed like it would fit with Nolanverse, especially if she acts like it was conducted purely for the purpose of psychological study when it was really a bit more personal for both Harley and her professor. And I really like the idea of her having a corrupt mentor who encouraged her immoral behavior just because it goes against what someone in that position is expected to do, which would definitely affect a student's outlook, I would think. Also, as in the comics, I wanted to leave it ambiguous as to whether or not Harley went all the way and really did sleep with her professor. In my personal opinion, though, she didn't, but it came very close to that.

Ra's al Ghul had had an almost…fatherly air about him – this is the sort of vibe that I got when I first saw _Batman Begins_. Ra's is like Bruce's Replacement Dad After Alfred, except he tells him kick ass instead of giving in to any emotional BS. So…he's like my dad. :-P Plus, I know I read somewhere that Mr. Murphy thinks of Liam Neeson as his surrogate movie Dad. That, and I loved him in _Breakfast on Pluto_, not to mention the fact that, the first time I saw _that _film, when it got to the scene where he goes to see Kitten's peep show, I said to my one friend, "And _that_, boys and girls, is how Ra's al Ghul met Dr. Crane and got him involved with the League of Shadows." To which she responded by promptly swatting me upside the head.

…her eyes…a soft shade of blue. – over the years, I've become somewhat anal about color, probably after reading several stories (both published work and fanfiction) where one person's blue eyes are described as cobalt, cerulean, and azure. No, it's not _that_ big a deal, but it still drives me crazy, especially since cobalt is such a dark shade of blue when compared to azure, or baby blue, or robin's-egg blue. They're all very different colors. So one day, I got it in my head to look up _exactly _what colors of blue I wanted Harley and Jonathan's eyes to be, since I get the feeling that they would be quite different from each other. Both light, pretty, and distinct, but clearly not the same shade. For Jonny, I'm going with electric blue, which, if you really wanna get technical, is actually a shade of _cyan _despite its name. And for Harley, I'm sent on Maya blue, which is noticeably darker than electric and much softer, though still rather light and very pretty. While I know that it's not supposed to be completely reliable, I've found that Wikipedia really is the best place to go for anyone who's interested in getting just the right color. Just type in "list of colors," or "Maya blue" or "electric blue (color)" if you're interested in seeing the specific colors that I've mentioned. :-)

…bringing a loaded handgun… – reference to _Scarecrow: Year One _where Jonny is fired from his teaching position at Gotham University after doing a demonstration on fear by shooting a pistol in one of his classes. Nolan-verse Crane doesn't seem quite that…over-zealous, to me. And my own version detests college kids, so I really can't see him ever teaching them. I like the idea that he was always drawn to Arkham Asylum.

**Disclaimer****:** Jonathan, Harley, and Mr. al Ghul belong to DC. Everyone else is MINE. :D


	10. The Devil in the House

**Chapter X**

_**The Devil in the House**_

Note: First of all, I apologize for the wait. I haven't given up or been slacking off either; it's just that there's this thing called college and sometimes it likes to take over my life. Particularly when you have to sit in the Library of Freezing-Ass Cold for three hours watching dreary, old French films about WWI because certain professors of yours didn't bother to tell you that you had to have the damn thing watched before midnight and, oh, by the way, that's when the online quiz is due. *cough* But, anyway, I digress. There have also been about six Harley/Jonny-related one-shots that I've been writing on the side, so they've taken up some of my time, as well.

On another note, if any of you are video game fans and you haven't done this already, go out and rent/buy _Batman: Arkham Asylum_, if only because somebody finally got a brain and decided to make Jonathan a badass for once. Or, if you're like me and don't play video games, go to YouTube and look for clips. I especially recommend any of the asylum interview ones, mainly because they're rather amusing and also because that's pretty much exactly how I imagine Jonny behaving toward the doctors in Arkham (though my version isn't quite as melodramatic, but that's only because he feels that he needs to preserve his dignity, silly thing). And while we're at it, I hated Harley's costume. Everything from the neck up was fine (in fact, I really liked it), but everything below that was just…no. Honestly, she looked like some Swedish milkmaid went crazy and took a bunch of steroids and got breast implants, then decided to borrow a slutty nurse's outfit from one of the Playboy Bunnies. Anyone else feel this way?

But, anyway, all ranting and fangirl-ing aside, this is the chapter that I've been dreading. I didn't want to write it, and I didn't enjoy writing it. While this installment does not include any physical abuse, once again, I feel I must warn you all about the psychological damage, though it doesn't really happen until the end. Let's just say that, if you didn't hate Susan Crane already, I'm fairly certain that you will now. You'll also know why I can feel sympathy for awful OCs like Breedlove, Daniel, and 'Stephen,' but I can't bring myself to do anything but despise her.

* * *

The minute he woke up, Jonathan knew that it was going to be a bad day. His head felt hot and fuzzy, and he could barely bring himself to lift it from his pillow; it was hard enough keeping his eyes open. He wanted nothing more than to pull the blankets over his head and go back to sleep…

Except he couldn't do that, he remembered, because it was Sunday. Which meant getting up early in the morning to attend Mass. And Jonathan knew that if he didn't get out of bed soon, Grandmother would come for him, and that never ended well.

Still, it was so tempting to just let go and fall asleep again… No, that wouldn't be good. Hugging his rabbit one last time, Jonathan forced his eyes to open and slowly uncoiled himself from the curled-up position that he always slept in. With slightly shaking arms, he pushed himself up, carefully swinging his legs around so that they dangled over the side of the bed. He shook his head to clear it, which wound up making his distortion much worse, as the rapid motion made his room spin.

He kept still for a moment, wincing slightly at the sudden tightness in his chest and weakly gripping the edge of his mattress for support as his vision swum.

When his head finally cleared (at least, as much as it was going to), he gingerly slid off of the bed, gasping a little when his bare feet made contact with the icy, hardwood floor. Shivering all over, he cast a longing look back at his bed, at the scratchy blue sheets and the single, lumpy pillow and his rabbit's ears poking out from beneath a faded quilt. It had never been a warm bed, but it must have been warmer than he felt now.

He bit his lower lip, considering. Would Grandmother know if he tried to sneak in a few more minutes of sleep? Was it worth the risk? What if he overslept and she came upstairs and found him still in bed? That could be disastrous… And he had been sick before (though, in truth, he had never felt quite this awful in the past), and he hadn't risked sleeping in, then. This was no different, and he knew better than to try and tempt fate, especially if doing so might have made him late for church. If that were to happen, Jonathan thought that his grandmother might finally kill him.

With a dejected sigh, he slipped on his thin, tattered bathrobe, hoping to stop the chills that racked his tired, achy form, and began to make the bed.

* * *

It had been seven years since he had last visited his hometown. That wasn't to say that he wouldn't drop in on occasion, if, for whatever reason, he had to go through the area, stopping just long enough to say hello to his family before he was on his way again. During winter and spring break, he had often been able to find excuses to remain at college—papers to finish, studying to do, research to gather, and the like. And when summer came around, he took on a second part-time job, ran errands for one of his professors, and continued to take classes. His parents and siblings always accepted that he could rarely find time off, even if they didn't quite believe it. In truth, he had always felt that they preferred it when he didn't come home, even though he was sure that they missed him. For all involved, it was simply better that he stayed away. It kept the neighbors from bringing up nosey questions and bad memories.

And yet, here he was, seven years later, sitting in church, of all things. He had been questioning the existence of God since high school, and by now, his years spent studying to become a brain surgeon had pushed him very close to the side of Atheism. Still, he wasn't quite there, yet. Something—an optimistic, childlike idealist part of him—kept him from completely losing faith in a higher power.

Regardless, he didn't want to be here. He didn't want to be in this town at all, but he especially didn't want to be at church. It was the ideal place for spreading rumors and gossip, not to mention running into people who he would have much rather avoided.

Unfortunately, he felt that there had been little choice when his mother had phoned him. That wasn't anything out of the ordinary—his family called him every other week or so. Their conversation had started out well enough, and then, the next thing he knew, his mother had begun to cry, saying that she missed him so much, that she couldn't stand only seeing him a few times a year, and that she wasn't asking him to come home, but if he had some free time during his spring break, would it be possible if he came back and actually stayed for a while? She had promised that she didn't care what the neighbors would say.

He had tried to explain to her that he didn't give a damn about the neighbors either; it was the fact that returning home would mean thinking about what had happened, confronting what he had tried to forget, facing _her_…

"Sweetheart…Susan's gone," his mother had said. "She skipped town over night and hasn't been seen in over a year—married a lawyer, I think."

And so he had agreed to come home. It had been that simple. Remarkably so. Almost pathetic.

He had even agreed to accompany his family to church, of all things, even though he hadn't once attended Mass during his entire stay at college. He had forgotten how uncomfortable the pews were, how cold and stale the atmosphere of all churches seemed to be. When they saw him, people stared, giving him dirty looks and muttering loudly under their breaths. He grit his teeth and did his best to ignore it, telling himself that he would be fine, as long as he didn't have to see _her_.

During the service, he grew increasingly bored—and irritated. As immature and blasphemous as it sounded, he rather wished that he had thought to bring one of his text books along; at least that way he could have been doing something progressive instead of sitting here, listening to the priest drone on about topics that he hardly even believed in anymore. There were several moments when he had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. His parents would have been appalled, thinking that he was setting a bad example for his younger siblings, who, from the look of them, were just as bored with the sermon as he was. Their glazed, uninterested expressions amused him, but only briefly, and he quickly lapsed back into his previous state of nerve-grating ennui.

Just when he was about to go through the periodic table in his head for a third time, someone started coughing, loud and painful. A child, from the sound of it.

There was silence for a minute or two, but then the coughing started up again, this time sounding even more painful than before. It didn't really bother him like it did several other, older members of the congregation; he was merely curious as to what kind of parent would bring their kid to church when it was clear that he (definitely a he) was pretty sick.

When it happened a third time, he couldn't resist turning around with a few others, though, unlike them, he had no intention of glaring at the source of the noise. He only wanted to see what the child looked like.

Of course, when he did, he instantly regretted it.

It wasn't that the boy was sitting where Susan and her family had always sat (a fact that he should have noticed when he figured out that the coughing was coming from behind and to the left of him), or even that he was sitting next to Susan's mother. It sounded cliché, but he didn't know anyone else with eyes like that, and that was what told him whom the child belonged to. Susan. And himself. Them. Both of them. Their son.

And it wasn't just the eyes. Even from his position six rows in front of him, he could make out all of Susan's features in the boy. Too small, too thin. And delicate. Seemingly breakable. Long lashes, high cheekbones, full lips, tiny nose—all hers. Yet the boy's hair was dark, like his.

He faced forward again, wishing that he had never looked.

He could have left it at that. It wasn't as if he needed or desired any more confirmation, and over the years, he had convinced himself that it was better that the boy didn't know who his deadbeat father was, why he wasn't around, why he didn't help the family. He couldn't have watched that child grow up and know that there was nothing he could do to support the boy. No, it really was better if he stayed out of it.

And he could have. He could have turned around, kept facing forward, and then made a quick escape once the service was over. But he didn't. For whatever reason—maybe it was the sickly state of the boy, maybe it was the shocking realization that Susan hadn't taken him with her like he had previously thought, or maybe it was his own damn conscience—but whatever it was, it made him rise from his seat after the congregation had been given the final blessing, it helped him tell his family that he wanted to stick around to talk to someone and not to wait for him (he didn't mind walking home), and it kept him moving until he found himself standing awkwardly in the isle, waiting for Susan's mother and his son.

Mrs. Crane was dragging the little boy along by his wrist, all the while scolding him vehemently for being noisy during Mass. That…bothered him. He knew that silence was asked for during the service and he knew how strict and fanatically religious Susan's mother was, but to reproach the kid for coughing? He was sick—anyone could see that, MD or no.

Seeing that, he would later reflect, was most likely what had given him the final push that he needed to actually approach them.

Mrs. Crane had never liked him (Susan had once told him that her mother had always warned her not to trust a man who was too educated), and he doubted that impregnating her daughter, whether he had meant to or not, hadn't helped to change her opinion of him, except perhaps to lower it even further. And, somehow, even after seven years, he doubted that he would be earning her favor any time soon.

He watched silently as several older women clustered around her, wanting to talk about idle things, swap recipes and such, and to fuss over the little boy.

"Isn't he just _dar_ling?" one of the women cooed. "I swear, he gets cuter every time I see him."

Her eyes quickly darting to him, the overbearing Mrs. Crane smiled politely at the other women before sitting the boy down on one of the benches and giving him firm instructions not to move while she went off to chat with her friends.

And there it was, his last chance to leave before he did something that he would…not regret, that wasn't the right word. It was that he knew that, if he went through with it, it would be an experience that would fill him with a wistful sort of sadness whenever he thought back on it in the years to come. But he knew as he looked at that pale, sickly little boy that he couldn't simply walk away from this, not again, not without at least speaking to the kid. He didn't even have to know who he was.

So, trying to act as casual and unobtrusive as possible, he meandered down the isle to where the child was sitting. The boy coughed painfully, trying to muffle the sound with his arm, and when he looked up, he saw that the kid was watching him warily, blue eyes watering slightly.

He gave him what his graduating class had voted 'Most Charming Smile' for their yearbook's senior superlatives.

"Hi," he began, hoping he seemed nonchalant.

The boy continued to watch him guardedly, though he did offer a meek "Hi…" in return, a pitiful rasp that hurt even to listen to. He quickly pressed on.

"Don't mind me. I was just looking for something."

Most children that age would have immediately responded to this statement by asking to know what, exactly, he was looking for, but the boy simply muttered a soft "Oh" before falling silent once again.

Surprised, he feigned a shrug of helplessness.

"Can't seem to find it, though… Oh well. Is it okay if I sit down?"

"I—" the boy winced, clearing his throat "—I guess so—" and he abruptly began to cough again.

He bit his lip, wanting to reach out and pat him on the back but afraid that he might startle the poor kid.

"Geeze, that sounds pretty bad," he said sympathetically once the coughing had subsided to a feeble gasping. "You feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," the boy mumbled, though he had begun to shake with an unnatural cold and his eyes were glassy. He looked exhausted.

"Well, you don't look it. Here…" He slipped off his jacket and moved to put it around the small, trembling frame, but the kid shook his head.

"No—thank you," he added quickly. "I shouldn't—"

"I don't mind. It's too warm in here, anyway."

_Even though he looks like he's freezing…_ He sighed, slipping the jacket over thin shoulders despite the boy's weak protests.

"You should save your voice—it hurts to talk, doesn't it?"

The kid gave a tiny nod.

"Okay, well…" He cleared his throat. "As a doctor, I'm telling you that you should try not to speak." It was a lie, he was still working on getting his MD, but the boy didn't need to know that.

"You're a doctor?" he asked.

"Yeah."

The child frowned, shaking his head.

"No, you're not. You aren't old enough."

He smirked a little.

"That doesn't matter if you're _smart_ enough."

"Really?" the boy asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes as he pulled the coat more tightly around himself, still shivering.

"Absolutely," he said, then stopped himself before he began to sound too much like a teacher lecturing the kid about the importance of staying in school and studying hard and not letting himself be distracted by stupid things like girls. It was bad enough that he had abandoned the boy; he didn't need to be a hypocrite on top of that.

The boy sniffed, rubbing his nose a little.

Pursing his lips and scowling slightly in concern, doctorly instinct taking over, he reached out to feel the his forehead.

The kid flinched at the unexpected touch, and he quickly withdrew his hand.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "I just wanna see if you have a temperature."

"_Every_one's got a temperature."

"Well…" Actually, he had a point. "What I meant was, I think you might have a fever and I wanted to check. It won't hurt, if that's what you're worried about."

There was a moment's hesitation, but eventually the boy nodded. He reached over, brushing dark bangs out of the kid's face, and laid the back of his palm against his forehead. Feeling the burning skin, he cursed under his breath.

"Your grandmother has to have realized that you're sick—why did she bring you to church?"

"Because she says church is important, and how do you know my grandmother? You're not from here because I've never seen you before." The boy glared at him, surprisingly untrusting for someone so young.

"I know her through someone, an acquaintance of mine. And I _am_ from around here; I've just…been away, for a while," he explained. "So, I take it you live here all the time? You aren't just visiting?"

The boy wrinkled his nose.

"Why would anyone wanna visit _here?_"

The obvious resentment in the question got a weary laugh out of him.

"All right, I can see your point. What I meant was, are you here visiting your grandmother?"

"No, I—"

"_Jonathan!_"

They both jumped and whipped around to see Mrs. Crane standing behind the pew, shooting them both a murderous glare.

"Just _what _do you think you're doing, young man?"

At first, he thought that she was talking to him, but then the boy spoke up.

"Nothing, Grandmother," he said, scrambling to his feet. "I've been sitting here, like you told me."

"It's my fault," he quickly intervened, taking responsibility for whatever 'it' was. "I started talking to him."

He stood and watched as the petite woman's lips pressed into a thin line and her nostrils flared, her eyes becoming, if possible, even more icy than before.

"You."

He smiled weakly.

"Hello, Mrs. Crane. How are you?"

"You have some nerve—"

"Listen, I don't want to start anything. I only came over because I heard the boy coughing—"

"Disruptive little—"

"—and I thought he might be sick," he finished with a glare of his own.

"He's fine," Mrs. Crane replied just as the kid said the same thing.

"No, you're not," he said, addressing the boy—Jonathan, he noted—who was looking worse than ever, gray-white skin shining with perspiration as he swayed on the spot. He looked back to the grandmother. "He's _not_," he said again, more firmly. "I think it might be the flu, which can be life-threatening if it's not treated."

"I'm not wasting good money on a doctor when he doesn't need one," the woman stated adamantly.

"He _does_—"

"I doubt it. This is another one of his tricks to get attention—isn't it?" She was looking at her grandson, now, who was shaking his head emphatically. "He's always doing this, misbehaving, acting up in school…"

Jonathan hung his head, face grim with shame as he wrapped his arms around himself.

He watched as the light fabric of his coat became spotted with tears and he ground his teeth, trying to remain calm.

"Regardless of that, he's sick now and he needs a doctor. Please," he entreated more gently, "let me help this one time and then I'll be gone. I can get my medical bag from home and stop by later—it won't cost you a thing—"

"I won't have you set one foot in my house," the woman spat.

"Then I'll find my own way inside, if it comes to that," he told her, growing more frustrated by the second.

"I'll call the police!" she exclaimed.

"And I'll have them arrest you for negligence," he shot back, livid.

Mrs. Crane gave him a humorless smirk.

"They won't believe you, not with your reputa—" She broke off abruptly, eyes flicking nervously to her grandson, who was leaning wearily against the back of the pew, barely paying any attention. But _he _saw the look, and something suddenly occurred to him. With a glance back at the kid, he took a step toward her, reveling slightly at the sight of her fearful expression as she backed away.

"I'll tell him," he said softly, so that only she heard him.

She blinked, feigning cluelessness—it was the same transparent expression that he had seen far too often on her daughter's face and it only served to incense him further.

"I don't know what you're ta—" she began, but he cut her off.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he whispered. "For whatever reason, you don't want him to know who I am. And if you don't let me help him, I'll tell him everything."

Susan's mother looked ready to claw his eyes out, and he had to hold back a nasty smile when he saw this. Though it wasn't entirely clear why she didn't want the boy to know his identity, he had a few theories, his best bet being that the older woman didn't want him corrupting the kid with his vile, educated ideas and loose morals. At least, that was what he imagined she thought of him.

Several seconds passed in which he endured Mrs. Crane's frosty, indignant glare. Eventually, however, she capitulated.

"Fine. But you won't utter a single word to him, do you understand? The boy causes enough trouble as it is. I don't need him getting any ideas from you. Unless you've finally decided to do your part and take him off my hands?"

Regretfully, he hung his head. Mrs. Crane sneered.

"That's what I thought. You never did have much of a backbone for all the brains you supposedly posses." She shook her head distastefully. "That's one nasty trait he's certainly inherited from you. Among others."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"My character make up is not the issue, here. The kid's health is." He refrained from saying 'your grandson' because, in his mind, that would mean openly rejecting Jonathan as his son. And he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Abandonment and rejection were two different things.

Another round of glaring ensued before one of them spoke again.

"How long are you going to be here?" Mrs. Crane asked.

"A week," he replied. "Spring break."

She nodded, considering this. "Well then…" She motioned to Jonathan. "Go on."

With a final look at her, he turned around to face the boy, who was still shaking but rubbing at his eyes, desperately trying to get rid of his tears.

"Hey," he said, crouching down next to him. "It…it's all right, y'know? You'll be okay."

The kid nodded, looking sick and miserable and like he was only half-hearing what was being said.

He sighed a little. "Um, listen, I'm…gonna take you back to your grandma's place and…" He wasn't really sure what to say. 'Take care of you' seemed entirely too familiar for two people who barely knew each other. "Um, well, you know… Be a doctor."

The boy sniffed, shaking his head.

"I still think you're too young to be a doctor."

"Yeah, well…I think you're too sick to walk, so…" Feeling awkward, he raised his arms, hovering somewhere between holding them out to him and reaching for the boy himself. Jonathan simply stared at him, as if he had no idea what to do.

He gave a small cough, swiping his tongue nervously over his upper lip.

"Uh, well… Come here?" he tried hopefully. "You don't really want to walk home, do you?"

The boy cast a wary glance at his grandmother.

"Hey, don't worry about her," he assured him. "I'm a doctor, remember? So she automatically has to go along with whatever I say."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"That's how it works." The sad thing was that that was somewhat true. Some of the doctors that he was interning under didn't exactly offer the best treatment, yet people went along with what they said and rarely questioned it because they had MDs.

Jonathan bit his lip, looking thoughtful and uncertain, not stepping forward. But when he moved to touch his shoulder, the kid didn't back away.

Ignoring Mrs. Crane's look of disapproval, he carefully lifted her grandson, who remained perfectly still, as if unaccustomed to being picked up and held. He assumed that this was because they were strangers and raised a hand to lay the boy's head against his shoulder, smiling nervously. Jonathan seemed just as uneasy, and yet he also had a look about him that said that he knew how ill prepared this too-young, supposed 'doctor' was for dealing with children.

It was true, but discomfiting though the situation was, as he carried the little boy out of the church, he tried not to think about how it could have felt almost natural.

* * *

The boy had fallen asleep while he was being carried home. It was just as well; if Jonathan had been awake, he would have felt…not guilty, but actually somewhat…stupid about dropping him off, then leaving to retrieve his medical bag, only to return to the Victorian-style farmhouse a few minutes later. He wasn't sure why, exactly. The kid was seven years old—there was no reason for him to have felt embarrassed about doing something silly and redundant (but necessary) in front of him. Maybe it was because the boy was so smart.

He was more than relieved to have discovered that. While he had been away at school, there were times when he hadn't been able to help but wonder what had become of his and Susan's child, and if it had turned out to be as single-minded as its mother or if, supposing the kid _had _inherited his intelligence, Susan and her mother had seen fit to steer it away from all things educational. It seemed as though the latter was the case, though, thankfully, from what he could tell, Jonathan's intellect was being nurtured, if only by the boy himself.

He hoped that the kid stayed that way, he really did. There were so many people, children and adults alike, with no desire to learn—Jonathan's mother was a perfect example, as were most of the people in their town. It was depressing to think that the boy was most likely teased enough as it was for having an absent father and a wanton, runaway mom; being a geek probably only added fuel to the flames.

Regardless of the negative connotations that came with being intelligent, he wished that there was something he could do to further the boy's education, maybe pay for his tuition if and when he became a successful neurosurgeon and finally had the means to help him out. But only if Jonathan's grades continued to be above par; there was no point in sending him to college if the kid had no ambition or work ethic, not when there were other impecunious children who were more deserving.

Perhaps he could also get him some decent books before he left, as there weren't many in the boy's collection. Although the ones that he did have were not what one would have expected a seven-year-old to read. The ancient copy of Washington Irving's _the Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ was particularly impressive. When he had asked Jonathan if his grandmother had read it to him, the kid had looked at him blankly and said that no one ever read to him, that he had basically taught himself.

Floored, he had left it at that, not knowing what else to say.

"Well, uh…_well_. I'm gonna feel around your throat a bit, and you tell me if it hurts at all. Okay?"

The boy nodded silently, though he was asking questions a moment later.

"Why d'you need to feel my throat?"

"I'm checking to see if your lymph nodes are swollen."

He scrunched his nose in confusion.

"What're they?"

"Uh…well, they're these organs that you have all over your body, and they make lymphocytes—which are like these small white blood cells—"

"Those are the ones that fight germs, right?"

Frowning a little, he paused in gently massaging the area beneath the boy's jaw line. Were seven-year-olds supposed to know that? Jonathan seemed to sense his confusion, because he looked away, squirming a little.

"Sorry. Everyone says I ask too many questions."

He shook his head.

"Don't listen to them. Most of the people in this town are happy knowing nothing, but that doesn't mean that being smart and asking questions is a bad thing. Anyway," he continued, "you were right about the white blood cells. And lymph nodes make them and they also sort of…filter out bad stuff. And _sometimes_, when you have certain infections, like in your throat, they become swollen and kinda hurt when you touch them, like a bruise, almost. I mean," he corrected himself, "they _feel _like a bruise, not that they look like one. Get it?"

"Uh huh…" Jonathan murmured, his eyelids beginning to droop.

He winced.

"Sorry. This is probably pretty boring."

"No," the boy told him, rubbing his eyes. "'M just tired…"

That much was obvious, given the way that he kept jerking his head up every time he started to nod off. 'Tired' didn't begin to describe how exhausted he must have felt (he suspected that he, himself, was the only thing keeping Jonathan upright). Yet the poor kid was making such an effort to pay attention, it was almost… He didn't know. The word escaped him.

It felt like this was the part where he was supposed to maybe give the boy a hug or at least clasp his shoulders or something, but instead all he did was give a resigned sigh and help Jonathan into bed, wordlessly handing him the gray, floppy-eared bunny when the boy reached for it.

His eyes lingered on the toy for a moment, on the child that clung to it, on the innocent, sleeping face, so small and fragile…

There was a strange tightness in his chest, but he tried his best to ignore it.

* * *

When he arrived at the once exquisite Victorian farmhouse the next day, he found that Jonathan had gotten worse. The boy's fever had risen to an alarming rate, his frail body drenched with sweat even as he laid there, shivering.

He did what he could to make the kid comfortable, throwing blankets over him whenever he was overcome by chills, laying a damp cloth across his forehead whenever he felt too warm, running out to pick up a variety of medicines (Robitussin for coughing, Dimetapp for congestion…). Really, though, taking care of him wasn't what was difficult; it wasn't even those uneasy moments when he could see Susan in the boy. But sitting there, learning more about him, marveling at how clever he was and finding traces of himself…and all the while knowing that he was going to leave that behind…that was what made it hard. He couldn't explain why—after all, he had only known Jonathan for a short time, and yet he was already growing attached. Paternal instincts, maybe. Ones that he hadn't even known that he possessed.

And maybe that was why he did it—why he had approached the boy in church, why he had given up his spring break to look after him, and it had to be why he called _her_. He couldn't think of any other reason for doing something so insane.

He had learned that Jonathan had been born in poor health and was often sick (or faking illness for attention, according to the boy's grandmother), but soon it became obvious that he had never been quite this bad before. The poor kid was beside himself with worry (which did nothing to help his already delicate condition), thinking that he was going to die, and…he couldn't ignore the boy's plight, no matter how painful the request might have been.

The boy was laying there, drawing pitiful, ragged breaths and looking as white as a sheet, save for a sickly flush to his cheeks, and in his delirium, tears had begun to course down his face.

Unsettled, he had reached out to take the tiny, ashen hand in his own, only to shrink away. Such a gesture was too familiar. So instead he chewed his lip and tried to make small talk, asking Jonathan if there was anything that he could get him.

He saw the kid's mouth move, but the voice was so weak, it was impossible to make out.

"What?" he asked, leaning closer.

Dry and cracked, the boy's lips parted to utter a single word:

"Mommy…" His voice cracked and suddenly he was sobbing outright. "I want my mommy…"

Feeling helpless, he glanced around, looking for an answer, an outlet—something—and found himself at a loss as to what to say.

"Where is your mother?" he finally asked, voice hollow. "Why isn't she here?"

Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut.

"She doesn't want me. I'm bad."

"No, I'm sure that's not true," he murmured, almost to himself. "I hear you're very good in school…" He trailed off, watching the boy with something akin to pity. "Do you know where she is?"

"No… She's been gone almost a year."

"Does your grandmother know?"

The boy shook his head and hiccupped.

"I don't know. She gets mad when I ask questions."

It wasn't very loud, but there was a request in that statement, one that he didn't want to fulfill but couldn't ignore. Inhaling deeply, he let time stretch on, the unspoken plea hovering between them.

"Maybe if I spoke to your grandmother…" he half asked, half suggested and left it at that, watching as Jonathan didn't dare look hopeful, merely whispered:

"Maybe."

It occurred to him how easy it would have been to lie to the kid, but he hadn't been able to do that, either. Deadbeat dad though he was, he wasn't without a conscience.

The boy had asked, and he had found himself unable to do anything but comply.

With a weary sigh, he nodded once.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

In the seven years that had passed, Susan Shapiro, née Crane, had thought that she would never hear from her—heartless, good-for-nothing—Handsome Stranger again. By that point, she had all but driven him from her mind, and of course, as luck would have it, that was when he finally got up the nerve to call her. Lousy scumbag.

That she was secretly delighted to have heard from him was a fact that she would never admit. Yet at the same time, Susan cursed herself for giving her mother her phone number.

What was she supposed to have said to him? She had no idea, though Nathan certainly did, and he had loudly voiced his opinions from his seat at the breakfast nook once he had figured out who she was having a conversation with and what it was about.

Upon hearing this, Handsome Stranger had scoffed, saying, "See you bagged yourself a new man. He sounds charming."

"He's a lawyer," she blurted out defensively, "with a decent income who takes care of me."

"And that's really all that matters, isn't it?"

Bristling, Susan had narrowed her eyes, but felt the blush warm her cheeks despite her frosty tone: "What do you want? I have a new life now, and it's a better one because doesn't include you, so why did you call me?"

"Certainly not to hear your lovely voice," he had muttered, then sighed, and Susan pictured him running a hand through his dark hair. "It's about…Jonathan," he finally murmured. Susan gasped.

"_What?_ What about him? Do you want him?"

"What? No." Then, as if realizing something, "_No!_ That's—I didn't mean to say it like that, it's not that I don't, I mean—" he growled "—_shit!_"

"Do you have to swear like that?" she had demanded, feeling flustered. No matter that Nathan cursed like a sailor on a regular basis.

"You'd swear, too, if you were in my position," her Handsome Stranger had snapped, then sighed heavily. "Look, Susan…I know better than to try and understand your messed up logic."

What was _that _supposed to mean?

"But the kid, y'know…he's really sick and he wants to see you."

Susan had gone rigid. She knew that she should have no longer cared what her high school sweetheart thought of her, especially when he was too much of a coward to stand behind her and help raise their child. But there was a part of her—the part that had been thrilled when he had called—that didn't want him to think her a bad mother. It wasn't that Susan cared about the boy—she knew that she could have gone the rest of her life and been perfectly content to never know what became of him—and she certainly didn't feel guilty for leaving him, not when Nathan provided for her and even let her send her mother enough money to get by, so long as she didn't interact with her bastard son. Yet for some reason, the thought of her Handsome Stranger knowing that she felt no remorse for her actions made her feel uneasy. So when she finally replied, she had tried not to sound quite as snippy as she had before.

"Well, I…you're there, aren't you? He has you."

"I'm leaving at the end of the week," he informed her. "And besides, he doesn't know who I am. He just thinks that I'm a doctor his grandma hired. You're the one he wants to see."

_Well what am I supposed to do?_ she had wanted to shriek. _You can't expect me to go over there! Nathan would never allow that!_

Out loud, she said: "I…I mean, I'm not sure if…"

"Come on, Susan," he had said in that gentle, pleading tone that made her want to kiss him and rip his throat out at the same time. "He's a little kid. He's scared and he doesn't feel good, and… He just wants to see you, y'know? It's that whole 'Dr. Mom' concept—the idea that you can make him feel better just by being there?"

She had said nothing, having no idea what he was going on about. Certainly, she had never felt that way about _her _mother…

"And he won't stop crying," her Handsome Stranger had added, sounding as if this was something unusual.

Susan had rolled her eyes. _If you think that, you obviously haven't been around him very long._

"I mean…I get that you didn't wanna have him, and that you left him with your mom because she knows more about raising kids than you and that lawyer do, but would it kill you to come and visit him now? He doesn't think you're a bad mom, if that's what you're worried about. If anything, he seems to think it's his fault…"

_Have you spent _any _time with that little brat at _all? she thought furiously. _Of course it's his fault, all he ever does is cause trouble—like you!_

Susan hated him, but she might have loved him, too. And that was why she had eventually agreed to go and see the boy—though at the time, she had told herself that it was only because she couldn't stand to listen to her Handsome Stranger's voice anymore; she knew that if he had gone on for one more second, she would have burst into tears.

"Will you be there?" she had asked before she could stop herself. Thankfully, Nathan had left for work by that point.

He hesitated, "I…"

"I don't…I don't think you should," she cut in before he could finish and break her heart again. She cleared her throat. "I don't think we should see each other."

"…Right," he had murmured quietly, and Susan told herself that that _was not _disappointment she heard in his voice. But she pictured him staring at the floor, dark hair hanging in his eyes as he chewed on his thumbnail and nodded to himself, the way he always looked when he was resigned.

"I don't want to see you," she said, clipped. "I don't."

A sigh, and she imagined him nodding.

"It's probably better that way."

* * *

Nathan had insisted on going with her, both to make sure that "that womanizing bastard keeps his hands to himself" and to protect her if her mother decided to go after her with a cane. Susan had assured him that her Handsome Stranger would have returned to college by the time they arrived, but she wasn't entirely certain about the latter. Her mother had always been strict, and she tended to hold grudges. But when Susan had spoken to her on the phone, her mother hadn't _sounded _angry, just cold. But then, Susan could barely recall a time when her mother _hadn't _sounded like that. And besides, it wasn't as if she had completely abandoned the woman—she and Nathan sent her money on a regular basis, so her mother couldn't have been too upset with her.

"Not if she wants those cheques to keep coming in," Nathan had warned on the drive over.

When they arrived (true to his word, her Handsome Stranger was nowhere to be seen), Nathan agreed to wait in the foyer with her mother while Susan went upstairs.

This was ridiculous. She didn't _want to be here!_ She didn't want to see that filthy little brat who had done nothing but make her life miserable. And yet, she knew that, for _him_, she would go through with it. He wasn't even there to see if she had kept her promise, but she had. She'd made the ninety-minute drive to this hated town, entered the miserable old house where she had grown up, ascended the creaky staircase, and now found herself standing outside the bedroom of something that she had hope to never see again. For him.

"Mother?"

The frail, raspy voice—heavy with disbelief and barely tinged with hope—startled her from her thoughts and made her look inside.

Susan had never thought that her son was a particularly attractive child—too skinny, too girly—but looking at him now, she felt that that was especially true. She couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the sight of him: Waxy and colorless, but blotchy around his sunken cheeks; nose swollen, red, and running (and he wiped it on his sleeve, the little idiot); his lips were chapped and too big; a tangled, greasy mess, his hair was in his face, plastered to his forehead; ratty pyjamas clung to his sweat-sticky body; and he was watching her, bug-eyed as always, only now they were watery and bright with fever.

Seconds passed in which the two just stared at each other.

"Well?" she asked finally, wanting to break the unnerving silence. "I'm here. What do you want?"

Susan thought that it was a reasonable question—the little bastard had obviously wanted her here for some reason; she had a right to know what it was. But he only glanced around the room, toying with the ears of that filthy old rabbit of his and looking utterly confused.

"For goodness sake, it's not a hard question—what do you want?"

He bit his lip, seeming nervous.

"I-I, I mean…um…"

Her patience was wearing thin. She had promised Nathan that she would see the boy, do whatever it was that he wanted, and then leave. Quick, simple, over within an hour or so. But as always, that horrid little beast was making things difficult, sitting there sputtering and wringing his hands, as if he had no idea what she was talking about, like _she _was supposed to know what he wanted her to do.

Susan gritted her teeth, feeling beyond annoyed.

"I came here for a _reason_, Jonathan, and I would _like _to know what it is."

"I…I thought—"

"_Well?_"

He flinched, holding the rabbit tighter. Susan sighed in frustration, having half a mind to go and rip the toy away from him and keep it until he gave her an answer, and she would have if that hadn't meant going near him. She had another threat, however, one that she would have been more than happy to carry out.

"If you don't answer me in the next three seconds, I'm leaving."

He stared up at her, shocked and trembling. She narrowed her eyes.

"One..."

"Mother, I-I—"

"Two…"

"I don't…I don't…"

"You don't _what?_" she snapped. "Do you mean to say you don't _know?_"

He looked away, and Susan could almost see the shame burning on his face.

"I thought you would know…" he whispered, looking close to tears (like he always did).

Susan gaped at him, flabbergasted.

"You thought… Why would _I _have any _idea _what you want?" she demanded incredulously, her confusion demolished by uncontainable fury.

He was silent, staring at his lap as he shrugged helplessly. She shook her head in disgust.

"I can't believe we drove all the way out here, Nathan's going to be furious…" she muttered, turning toward the door.

"Wait—no, please don't leave," he called desperately.

Susan whirled around, eyes blazing.

"Why? Why shouldn't I leave? I obviously have no business being here—"

"No!" he exclaimed, looking horrified. "No, I mean…I'm sorry I made you mad. Y-you don't have to stay, just…could you…maybe…"

"Out with it, Jonathan, I don't have all day—"

"…kiss me goodbye?"

His voice was very small, and his eyes kept looking to her, then darting away quickly.

There was no mistaking it, however soft it might have been—she had heard him correctly, even though she wished that she hadn't. Susan closed her eyes, unable to think, yet at the same time, feeling overwhelmed by thoughts. Images of herself and her Handsome Stranger, flashes of Nathan, and then, in between it all, this despicable, worthless little boy who had brought her nothing but misery since the day he was born. She hated him, just as she hated his father, the only person she had ever let touch her. Nathan did, but she never liked it. Nathan was clueless, rough and sloppy, his beard and moustache scraping against her soft, white skin. But _him…_he had been sweet and gentle, and he had known what he was doing, one hand on the small of her back while the other caressed her cheek, fingers playing with her hair…

Nathan took care of her—that was what really mattered, and it was something that her Handsome Stranger, for all his gentle touches, could not and _would not _do. Spineless, lying letch that he was… And now his son wanted her to remember all of the times she had spent with him? To bring back all of those terrible, wonderful memories of touching, holding, kissing—memories of a time when she thought that she might have been in love? No. It didn't matter that the boy probably wanted her to kiss him on the forehead; it was too close. There were things that she had been fighting to forget about for over seven years, and she refused to give up the battle now when this misbegotten child was asking her for a kiss. No. Absolutely not.

"Mother?" Jonathan asked, looking worried.

Susan closed here eyes.

"…what did you say." It was a statement, and she did not know why it was said when the request was one that she never wanted to hear again.

"If you could—" he swallowed "—kiss me goodbye. Y-you've never done it before, and, I just, I thought that—"

"No," she interrupted, barely able to keep herself from shouting. "How could you ask such a thing? You _know_, Jonathan. You _know_ that I hate being touched—"

"I know, Mother, I'm sorry—"

"—_especially_ by you," she finished, and he shut his mouth, hugging his legs to his chest. Susan shook her head. "I_ hate _you_—_can't you understand that? _I hate you_. I can barely stand the sight of you, you filthy, disgusting little—it's a wonder your grandmother lets you live in the house." She paused, glaring steadily at him. "Do you think I even _wanted _you? You _ruined_ me, you destroyed my reputation—no one wants an ugly, overweight _whore _who's tied down to a little _freak _with mental problems. You have no idea how lucky I am to have found Nathan—_he _loves me no matter what—"

"_I _love y—"

"_Don't_," she hissed, pointing a threatening finger at him. "Don't you _dare _say that to me." Hearing him say that would be too much like hearing his father say it. Susan didn't think that she could take the pain of that.

She drew a steadying breath. "I'm going to leave, and I have no intention of coming back, nor do I want to see or hear from you again. Am I making myself clear?"

He nodded weakly, chin resting on his knees.

"Do you understand me, Jonathan? I want to hear you say it."

"Yes…" he finally whispered, staring straight ahead rather than gazing pleadingly up at her like normally did. His voice was quieter, too, no longer the quickly stammered ramblings or the endless, piercing wail that it usually was.

Suspicious, Susan arched an eyebrow at him, but gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement.

"Good."

She turned to go and noticed that he wasn't even shaking anymore, merely sitting there. Crying silently. Staring at nothing. It was almost off-putting.

But Susan simply brushed it off and strode out the door, deciding that, whatever it was—if it _was _anything—she didn't need to concern herself with it.

* * *

Have I mentioned how much I absolutely _hate _Susan? I didn't like writing this chapter very much, either, which I suspect might be one of the reasons why it took me so long to finish it.

That said, I have half a mind to write a final scene from Jonathan's point of view, since I'm wondering if everything came across in the end. But at the same time, I kinda like the ending the way it is and I'm also wondering if such a scene would be too painful to write/read. There's quite a bit of angst in this story, and I don't wanna hit you guys with too much of it at once.

Notes

The Devil in the House – I just wanted to note that I like the ambiguity of this chapter's title, because it's up to you to decide who it's referring to. For me, personally, it's a toss up between Granny Crane's conviction that Jonny is hell spawn (which would mean that Satan's in her home, if his dad's come to visit) and the fact that Susan (who is just plain evil, in my humble opinion) is also present.

…go through the periodic table in his head – to me, this just seems like something that a poor, bored geek would do—and I don't mean that as an insult. Science and mathematics are not my forte, and anyone who has the periodic table memorized has my respect, as I can only ever remember that K is for potassium and Au is for gold. :-P

the boy– the other day, I was watching _the Boy in the Striped Pyjamas _ (which was very good, even if it wasn't historically accurate, though it was still no _Inglorious Basterds _:D) for the first time. I got to thinking that, if _this _story was made into a film, I think that Asa Butterfield (Bruno) could totally get away with playing young Jonathan. He looks enough like Mr. Murphy, plus, more importantly, the kid can act—and this is coming from someone who normally can't stand child actors. Oh, and the fact that they had him wear sweater vests on occasion made my inner fangirl go into overdrive, especially when he was wearing the azure blue one. Yeah, I was entirely too pleased when I saw that and I kept going, "It's a _siiiign!_" because I really am that lame. :-P

"_Every_one's got a temperature." – true, 'temperature' is another word for 'fever,' but I always thought that that was kind of silly since, like Jonathan says, everyone has a temperature at all times (and if you don't, then you should probably get that checked out immediately). It's just that, sometimes, it's higher than normal, in which case you most likely have a fever. Or are being roasted alive or something similar. Either way, consulting a doctor wouldn't be a bad idea.

_The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ – I debated over whether or not it was conceivable that a seven-year-old (even an exceptionally bright one) could read and understand Washington Irving, _but_…I talked it over with a children's reading specialist that I know and, according to her, this isn't unheard of, just uncommon.

…like _she _was supposed to know what he wanted her to do – to me, it would make sense that, starved for affection as he is, Jonathan _wouldn't _quite know how to explain that he wanted his mother to comfort him (or even what she could do to comfort him). It also seems natural that, just as a kid in general, Jonathan would assume that his mother _would_ know that he wanted to be comforted (and if I didn't know how evil she is, I would think that, too). But, anyway, this is mainly what I was worried would not come across in this chapter, mostly because I didn't provide access to Jonny's POV for this scene, just Susan's utterly oblivious (and totally heartless) one.

"…kiss me goodbye?" – I wish that FFN let me use different font sizes because, while I normally use size twelve font, in the original word document, I shrunk this line down to ten and feel that it really adds to it. Yeah, I really should be able to convey Jonny's terror and desperation through my writing, but I can't help it; I like playing with different fonts. :-)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Jonathan, only his mystery daddy and his grandmother. And Susan, though I wish I didn't.


	11. Doctor Patient Confidentiality

**Chapter XI**

_**Doctor-Patient Confidentiality**_

Note: After rereading this chapter and discovering that the first scene alone was eighteen pages long and that I still had two more scenes to write, I got to thinking that that _might _be a little ridiculous, even for me. And while you guys have said that you don't mind lengthy chapters, we're looking at well over thirty pages here, and I don't wanna push it. Plus, it's been way too long since I've updated. So, this chapter has been cut in half. Granted, this totally screws up the formatting for the entire story, but…meh. I'll see if I can't work that out.

On another note, I feel like Jonathan's cold-heartedness comes at you full-force in this chapter. True, I've tried to make him out to be quite a cruel, unfeeling prick, but it just seems like he's particularly callous here. Probably because, before, he was only being nasty to people who kinda deserved it. Now it seems like "Crane! You frosty SOB, you!" Basically, I'm wondering if it feels a little too…in-your-face? You'll see what I mean. And if not, then…I guess I worried for nothing. ;-)

* * *

"Oh, it looks nice."

He glanced up from his desk and saw Harleen standing in the doorway of his new office, leaning against the frame, arms folded casually over her chest.

"Thank you. I felt that something had to be done about it."

"'60s retro not your style?"

"No."

She giggled silently, still casting an approving eye around the room.

Redecorating hadn't been an easy task, particularly when it came to removing the wood paneling, and pulling up all that shag carpeting had been a nightmare to pull up, but he could honestly say that he was quite satisfied with the results. Dr. Gooding's once tacky office now looked more like a library. A proper library with fern green walls that were lined with bookshelves, hardwood floors covered with richly colored Oriental rugs, antique brass lamps that provided warm but efficient lighting, and a dark leather couch with two matching armchairs. It was the kind of place where people wanted to read, not like most modern libraries which were cold with uncomfortable plastic chairs and harsh, artificial lighting. Not a suitable reading environment at all.

"It's too bad about Dr. Gooding, though," Harleen murmured.

He scoffed.

"What?" she asked, and she would have seemed genuinely surprised had he not known better.

"I'm not at liberty to say," he began, "but you know exactly what."

"I'm just saying, it's not every day your boss has a mental breakdown and winds up in a mental institution."

"Dr. Gooding was under a great deal of stress," he stated plainly.

Now it was her turn to scoff: "Kinda doubt that."

"Then it must have stemmed from some sort of childhood trauma," he concluded

airily.

"Well, I guess anyone who goes for blond laminate must have some issues."

He made a soft noise of agreement, frowning as he skimmed over several reports. Apparently, Dr. Adams' OCD patient had been driven to a disassociated state after refusing to let him bathe for two days as a means of combating his germaphobia. Who in the hell had authorized that... Cavendish. Well, now it all made sense. He shook his head and moved on, eyes flitting back and forth across the paper. Harleen had filed a number of complaints about Bolton, demanding that he be taken out of the women's ward and that he no longer be put on night duty. Why...? Ah. April Cohen. Of course. He had known that before he had come across her name. He had made certain to keep her mildly sedated and bound to a straightjacket when she had been his patient, though that hadn't kept her from going into great detail about all of the lewd and depraved things that she would have loved to do to him, were she ever to get free. He was well aware of Harleen's theory that the girl was being raped, but, quite frankly, he couldn't bring himself to care.

_After all, you can't rape the willing, as they say._

And on top of that, it kept Bolton quiet—just another part of the man's skewed sense of justice. He knew what the head of security did in addition to the beatings but felt apathetic toward the matter. Some of the patients deserved it, some of them didn't…either way, there were other problems that merited his concern. Besides, he wasn't about to fire Bolton.

But what was this about the girl's medication…? He scanned a bit further, noting sentences like 'frequent memory loss,' 'request change in treatment,' 'halt current medication,' and 'alternate diagnosis.'

His head snapped up.

"You think that Miss Cohen suffers from dissociative identity disorder?"

"I _think_ so, yes," Harleen replied. "I'm not entirely sure yet. That's why I wanna wean her off cloapine, maybe give her some benzos…"

"I see," he murmured, gazing at her critically. "How did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"Well...just by the fact that she doesn't act like she's hypersexual—at least, not around me—and when she supposedly _does_, she never remembers it. She feels dazed, has no recollection of certain events, sometimes she'll start crying for no reason...it all adds up to DID."

"It adds up to schizophrenia, as well."

"Fine, then, why has she never attacked me? And why does sex always seem to be the last thing on her mind?"

"Hypersexual patients do not necessarily suffer from OCD as well, Harleen. I would have thought that you were aware of that." He took off his glasses to give her a pointed look. "The fact is that you're basing your diagnosis on the _theory_ that Miss Cohen is being sexually assaulted. Aside from a 'feeling' that you have on the matter, there is no substantial evidence to support your claim."

"But why not test the theory? What do we have to lose? It's not like we could kill her, not if we did it right."

_Damn it_. He felt a brief rush of anger both at Bolton for having such carnal needs, and at her for sounding too much like himself in that moment. She might have cared for April Cohen, that was obvious and not like him at all, but her willingness to overlook her patient's health… Inwardly, he shook his head. _Too familiar_. The concern was there, yes, but so was the desire to see if she was right.

_Be careful, Harleen. I'd hate to start liking you._

"Don't tell me that just because you're in charge now, you've suddenly got a stick up your ass. You don't have to set an example for the rest of us."

And just like that, his anger was back. There was a sneer in her voice, a little bitterness as well, and distress. She didn't think that he was trying to be a model psychiatrist, but at the same time, she didn't want him to become one.

"You have nothing to worry about, Harleen. I'm still as corrupt as I ever was." A quick, nasty smile before a sigh. "Though I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't reassign you."

Ah, now _that_ got under her skin.

"What?" she demanded quietly, confounded.

"You're clearly becoming too attached to your patient," he informed her. "That can cloud your judgment and cause you to make an incorrect diagnosis." It didn't matter if April Cohen truly suffered from DID—of course she did; he had known that the minute his former patient had mentioned memory loss—but before he had been able to declare his diagnosis, Gooding had pulled him from the girl's case and reassigned her to Cavendish. He wouldn't deny that it was out of spite that he had refrained from helping any of Cohen's other doctors; they wouldn't have listened to him even if he had offered his insight.

It wasn't that his colleagues were unqualified (well, not all of them), but the majority of them were supremely lazy, content to write up a half-formed diagnosis and prescribe a cocktail of sedatives and mood stabilizers rather than deal with their patients. They had no appreciation for the mind and its abilities, no need to study it further. They all had their MDs and secure positions, now, and most were happy to leave it at that. It was understandable, in a way, how easily they could slip into this chronic state of indolence—the income was substantial, the notoriety appealing, and they could have it all by doing nothing because, after all, no one listened to the ravings of the mad; claims of malpractice would go unheard. And his fellow psychiatrists—some of them, anyway—had worked hard to earn their doctorates, and working in a mental institution was hardly glamorous (though an outsider looking at Harleen Quinzel or himself might have said otherwise). They probably felt like they were entitled to their lethargy. That certainly explained it.

It did not, however, excuse it.

As the asylum's new administrator, he fully intended to change that regimen—by completely annihilating it. Lines would be drawn, expectations would be met, those that failed to live up to them would face repercussions, and he would undoubtedly become less popular for his efforts. Thankfully, winning the approval of his peers had never been high on his list of concerns. At any rate, if there came a time when he did need the majority's favor, Harleen would most likely be on his side, and she had one of those personalities that idiots seemed to like.

Damn it, did she have any idea how annoying it was that she was interested in psychology or that she was actually good at her job? Had it been anyone else, he might have been relieved to know that someone had figured out what the rest of the staff had failed to notice: that Cavendish wore women's clothing, that Bartholomew was a drug addict, or that April Cohen most likely had DID. It wasn't even that so much as it was the fact that what he had said was true—she was letting herself become too emotionally attached to her patient. It was a weakness and a hindrance, and he would _not _tolerate it in his hospital, especially when he had come to expect better from her. And it was said that history repeated itself. If Harleen did this with one patient, she was likely to do it again, and from what he could see, the best course of action was to tell her that she was wrong and assign April Cohen to a different doctor.

"I'm telling you this because you're one of the least incompetent psychiatrists here, and I'd prefer to keep it that way."

She seemed a little stunned at this, most likely because he had just given her what could almost qualify as a complement. Her response, he knew, would provide an estimate as to how much sway he had over her, of how much she trusted him and valued his opinion. Harleen could be stubborn, especially when she knew or at least thought that she was right. But he knew that she cared about what he thought. Asking him to read over her articles was proof of that. He remained silent, waiting.

Until she sighed.

"Shit…yeah... You're probably right, I mean…I heard that from the director at Rose Hill, too. Only once or twice, but still..." She shrugged. "My instincts are usually pretty reliable, so I can't help but convince myself that I should go with them all the time, y'know?"

"What you need to do," he began carefully, "is learn how to take a step back and evaluate a person as their psychiatrist and not as their friend."

She nodded, but continued to protest.

"What if I'm right, though? If I am, we might be doing more harm than good since there's no drug to combat DID, but psychoanalysis has been known to help, and that's my area of expertise—"

"I know that, Harleen," he interjected smoothly. "But what do you expect me to say when four out of Miss Cohen's five doctors have agreed that she suffers from schizophrenia?"

It must have been a sign that he was truly winning her over—had he been anyone else, Harleen would have put up more of a fight. Instead, she stared at him in mute defiance, yet he could tell that she was inwardly furious with herself for her inability to give a sufficient response.

Finally, there was an act of conceding—the lowered gaze, the quiet sigh. She wearily massaged her brow, keeping her eyes hidden.

"You're gonna reassign me, aren't you?"

"I think it would be best for all parties involved, yes."

Her hands dropped to her sides, shoulders rising then falling in a gesture of helplessness.

"You're probably right—you're always right, which is the only reason I'm letting this go." She shook her head. "I should be pissed at you, y'know. But I have a horrible time staying mad at people I like, so…be grateful you're on that list cuz otherwise, you wouldn't have won. Well—" she rolled her eyes at herself "—you _would_ have, but it wouldn't have been so easy."

"Of that I have no doubt," he smirked. "I'm sure you have a few choice words for me."

"Yeah," she admitted. "Can't seem to think of any right now, though…"

"Well, when you do…"

"Oh, I'll tell you, don't worry." She smiled a little thinly, swinging her foot back and forth. "You're really gonna reassign me?" she asked again, like she didn't quite believe it.

He flashed her a Look to let her know that his patience was wearing thin. She wasn't fazed, most likely caught up in worrying over dissociative sex addicts. He ground his teeth.

"_Yes_, and if you ask me that again, I'll have to do my worst."

Harleen bit her lip, intrigued and not quite grinning. "Well now I have to ask—what's your worst?"

"Informing you that you're acting overly motherly and naïve by coddling your patient like this. In short—" his lips curled "—I'd say that you're acting like Dr. Leland."

Knowing about the girl's dislike for the other psychiatrist had prepared him for her reaction, but it was still entertaining to watch the conflicting emotions play out across her face. It looked like she was torn between being amused and appalled. She sulked a little.

"You're a cruel, cruel man, Dr. Crane."

"Yes," he agreed, "but only for your benefit."

* * *

"So…you won't be my doctor anymore?"

She drew a slow breath. "No. Dr. Crane feels that...this is no longer a doctor/patient relationship."

April bit her lip, looking upset.

"Well...what do you think?"

"I think he's right."

"But I don't get why that _matters_," the younger girl protested.

"We're not supposed to get close to our patients," she explained. "It can cause us to make bad decisions as far as treatment goes."

"But you're supposed to be the shrink that doesn't follow the rules. That's why you were able to take on that Worm guy and the cannibal and—"

"April," she interjected. "Don't. You have to listen to me."

Her patient hung her head and nodded, heaving a sigh that cause limp bangs to flutter upward.

"You've gotta realize I'm not as nice as you think I am—"

"What? Yes you are." April looked bewildered.

_No, I'm not. I'm a manipulative, cutthroat bitch who's mostly doing this for her own benefit. If Jonny's right and I'm wrong, you and I are both fucked, but it'll be worse for me if I keep treating you._

"I can't keep getting attached to my patients—nothing good will come of it in the long run. And if I thought that you were actually aware of your actions—"

"Then why are you letting them stick me with someone else?" April demanded. "That doesn't make sense, if you still think you're right about me."

She drew a deep, calming breath. "Here's the deal: Number one, Dr. Crane is a _much_ better, much more _experienced_ psychiatrist than I am. I doubt he's ever made a wrong diagnosis before. But…I guess we all make mistakes." She swept her tongue over her lip, not liking the possibility of Jonathan's being wrong but at the same time unable to shake her own certainty about April's condition. "Number two, if he thinks you're schizophrenic, there's no way in hell I'm gonna get him to changes his mind."

With feigned innocence, April looked to the ceiling, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"Why don't you jump his bones?"

She laughed a little, ducking her head. "Ah-hm, uh...I don't think...that would be the best approach."

"It's how I'd do it—I don't mean that as, you know, a nympho," April added hastily. "I was just kidding. Besides, Dr. Crane doesn't seem to like girls much. I think he's afraid of them."

"Maybe," she responded vaguely. "The point is, since he's in charge of Arkham, now, what he says goes. And if he says I'm done with you..."

"There's not a whole lot you can do, right..." April sighed.

"Which brings us to number two." She paused, making sure that April was looking directly at her. "I want you to cheek your meds."

Brown eyes went wide. "_What?_"

"Not all at once," she assured her. "Withdrawal from antipsychotics can be nasty business, so you'll wanna come off them slowly. You know how to cheek your pills, right?"

Her patient shrugged. "It's not that hard. I think I might've done it with the stuff they had me on in high school."

"Okay," she murmured, nodding to herself.

"What about my therapy, though?" April asked. "My new doctor won't be treating me for DID."

"Cognitive therapy has been proven effective in treating most mental illnesses. The only exceptions are really severe cases like dementia. But with anything else, a lot of the time you don't necessarily _need_ medication. The problem is that most people are looking for an instant cure when it just doesn't work that way."

"Maybe that's why Dr. Crane disagrees with you?"

"He does like his drugs," she admitted. "But I think he's more concerned with making a proper diagnosis. He knows pills can help, but having a decent shrink plays a big part in a patient's recovery. As does the patient," she added. "You have to wanna get better and put forth an effort..." She gave April a measured look, waiting until the other girl nodded. "So, if your new doctor knows what they're doing, and if I _didn't_ screw things up and you start making progress _without_ meds..."

"Everything should work out okay."

"That's the idea, yeah."

Exhaling tiredly through her nose, April slowly leaned back, flopping gracelessly onto her cot where she ran her hands through her hair.

"What about Bolton?" she said after a moment. "Somehow, I doubt he's been moved out of my wing."

"No," she admitted, "he hasn't. But there's something I wanna try. I think it'll work."

* * *

"You just had your first session with the new guy, right?"

In the time that he had spent in Harleen's company, he had come to realize several things, one of them being that she was not as naïve as she appeared, but also that she didn't feign her cluelessness, either. At least, not deliberately. And for the life of him, he could not figure out why this was other than the insufferably simple explanation that it was just her manner of speaking. For instance, she knew perfectly well that he had met with 'the new guy', yet she brought up the subject in the form of a question. Why she had done that when she knew the answer was something that he was beginning to suspect he would never known, which only made it all the more vexing. Damn her.

"Yes," he replied succinctly, glancing up from his desk. "I take it that's why you're here?"

"Well, seeing as how we're working on his case together. With Leland." She scowled slightly as she stepped into his office, closing the door behind her. "Can I be a snob for a minute and say that I thought the GCPD wanted our _best _psychiatrists to handle this?"

His eyebrows rose. "May I remind you that _I_ was the one who assigned her to the case? Dr. Leland has a notable recovery rate—"

"For Level Ones," Harleen muttered.

"Level Ones typically _are_ the only patients who recover," he reminded her sharply.

"And they're also typically the only patients she handles," she countered and shook her head in disgust. "She'll be too easy on him."

"Yes, but her sympathetic approach may very well appeal to Mr. Tetch's…childlike nature."

Harleen looked away, though the purse of her lips said that she disagreed.

"Besides," he continued quietly, "Leland is easily satisfied. She'll be happy mulling over the most basic assessments, which will give us space to do a _proper_ analysis ourselves. Any other doctor would want us to constantly work as a team, even if they hardly have anything to contribute, because that way, when all was said and done, they could say that they were _involved_."

"I always hated group work when I was in school," Harleen muttered.

"The feeling is mutual," he replied. "And anyway, would you rather be working with Dr. Strange? He was quite eager to employ hypnotherapy on the man."

A soft noise of resentment.

"Or what about Dr. Adams?" he continued, smirking.

"Oh, sure," she replied, and there was a note of bitterness in her voice that he had never heard before. "Give her a pedophile and she'll try weaning him off of little girls by giving him a little boy to play with."

"Of course not. The obvious approach would be to introduce him to Mary Dahl. She looks like a child, but she's perfectly legal. Problem solved." Sarcasm, which normally made her laugh, but not this time. He sighed but inwardly was excited at the thought that he might have finally found the patient that could rattle Harleen's cage.

Before his terriblyunfortunate breakdown, Gooding had often assigned Harleen to residents of Arkham's maximum-security wing, and this was something that he had made sure to continue after the former director was committed, knowing that _one day _he would find the lunatic that would get under her skin.

None of the serial rapists had worked. The near-rabid and morbidly obese cannibal, Adam Jennings, had been unsuccessful. He had seemed quite taken with Harleen and had apologized sincerely after confessing that he didn't want to eat her, as she was too skinny and therefore unappetizing. Then he had admitted, as an afterthought, that he wouldn't turn down her breasts and she had practically beamed at this, taking it as a complement.

He hadn't had any luck the homophobic Melvin West who had viciously abused several young, gay men whom he had kept as prisoners in his dungeon-like basement. Apparently, the man had been quite pleasant once he had learned that Harleen shared his interest for Medieval torture devices (and that she seemed unfazed by the fact that he had used a number of them on his victims).

But there had been one, Joseph Sundner, who had had somewhat of an effect on her. Not the kind that he had hoped the man would provoke, not fear… But Sundner _had_ made her angry, angry enough that, over the course of their therapy sessions, she had all but broken the man's spirit, slowly tearing him apart using only her word.

Sundner was a pedophile.

Of course, he couldn't say that he knew anyone who _didn't_ despise pedophiles, and one of the things that made Harleen a capable psychiatrist was her unbiased and unorthodox treatment of her patients, but regardless…her behavior toward Sundner seemed somewhat extreme, even for her. Normally, she didn't set out to _break _them, she just wanted to understand them. This had been different.

After the first session, he had been curious to see Harleen's reaction to this new type of madman and had stopped by her office. It had been locked, but the lights had been on and the only time Harleen locked her door was when she was speaking with someone, yet the office had been silent.

He had knocked. No reply. Knocked again, said her name. Still nothing. With a sigh, he had given up and pulled out his master key. He had known that he had seen her go in, and it wasn't like her to ignore him.

When the door had finally opened, he had stepped into the office to find her curled up on her sofa-bed with her eyes closed and her thumb pressed against her mouth, looking strangely drained—drained, but not asleep.

"Harleen," he had said when she refused to acknowledge him.

She hadn't moved, like a child who hoped that they would be left alone if the adult thought that they were sleeping.

"Harleen," he had repeated, "I know you're not asleep, and you have a session in thirty minutes."

"Which means I have twenty minutes to take a power nap, so if you don't mind…?" Her thumb had left her lips, but other than that she had remained perfectly still.

"Shouldn't you be using this time to review your notes?"

"No."

"You're seeing Daniel Wallace—"

"Who is a whiney, self-centered brat who wasted his potential because of an uncontrollable need to be center of attention," she had interrupted. He hadn't thought that it was possible, but her voice had held even more irritation than his own. "And since he's now in a near-catatonic state, twenty minutes of studying isn't gonna tell me anything new," she had finished. "My notes are on the desk, though, if _you'd _like to review them. Just please do it somewhere else."

Brusque, uncivil, hardly paying any attention to him… He had folded his arms over his chest, momentarily caught off guard by her rude behavior.

"Is that your way of asking me to leave?"

An impatient sigh and clenched teeth—two things he wouldn't have associated with Harleen, yet she had done both before finally opening her eyes and snatching up her phone to check the time.

"Well, since now I've only got ten minutes to get some sleep, I'm just gonna tell you to leave. Please," she had added as an afterthought, looking up at him like…almost like she was trying not to glare. He had gotten the feeling that she had made an exception for him, trying to keep her expression blank. She had almost succeeded, save for the tautness of her lips and the strange intensity in her gaze. Not frightening, but intriguing enough. He had seen it before when that Dr. Woodrue had walked away with her friend Miss Isley and again when Gooding had put his hand on Harleen's knee. It was as if she was holding something back. There was intelligence and cunning beneath the dumb blonde exterior, but buried below _that _was something else, something almost…feral that was being kept sedated by laughter and indifference while she silently warned everyone not to provoke it.

But she _feared _it, whatever it was, wherever it had come from. She feared what it might do. It made her vulnerable—of course, that was what any emotion did, but especially Fear. And her patients fed off of every scrap of Fear that they could get; _that _was why she had needed to calm herself before attending to Wallace.

By now he knew that perturbing Harleen Quinzel was no easy feat, but her behavior that day had confirmed that it wasn't impossible. The girl couldn't make a joke out of everything. There was a deep-rooted, hated terror inside of her, and Jeremy Sundner had nearly brought it out.

A million different scenarios had run through his mind, each one more horrific than the next. Any theory could have been correct, but he had been rejecting them all, one by one. She seemed far too collected, too bright and healthy. Quirky and unorthodox, yes, but mostly well adjusted. If she were depressed, he would have known. If she were taking any medication, he would have picked up on the side effects, even if it were a mild dosage. And somehow, he doubted that she had a Scarecrow. She was _happy_, and a person couldn't come from abuse and be happy.

So he had assigned her to another pedophile, one Jervis Tetch. A pathetic, delusional misfit, albeit a highly dangerous one, who fancied the moniker "the Mad Hatter" and having tea parties with young girls. Ages six to twelve. Preferably with blue eyes. Blonde hair was another requirement. It was a bonus if their name happened to be 'Alice,' though even if it wasn't, the man refused to call them anything else.

He abducted shy little girls, vulnerable girls, who came from broken families in the Narrows and would take a while to be missed (if they _were_ missed; this was Gotham, after all). Typical behavior of a pedophile. He lured them into his van with the promise of toys or candy, or perhaps by asking for help with his sick puppy/kitten/rabbit. Whatever the promises, they had all been broken to twelve young girls who had not been seen alive again, and (hopefully) lucky number thirteen who might not have the misfortune of being counted among the others.

Tetch had been arrested just two days ago for exhibitionism at an elementary school's Halloween parade, unable to control himself. Again, typical. A child had screamed at what he had shown her and run crying to one of the teachers. School security had arrived shortly after to escort him off the premises. At first, Tetch was supposed to have been given a slap on the wrist, but the when he had grown hysterical and begun speaking in nothing but quotes for _Alice in Wonderland_, the school had called the police. Upon calling in his ID, they had discovered that Tetch was a former patient at Arkham (long before he or Harleen had ever worked there) who had been released several years ago. That was where the police had taken him. But on the drive over, in his panic, Tetch's insane babbling had grown increasingly disturbing, with allusions to twisted fantasies that sounded almost as if they had been fulfilled. And the cops had remembered what several teachers had remarked before they had hauled Tetch away, claims that this wasn't the first time this had happened, just the first time that the GCPD had bothered to show up. And they hadn't forgotten how one frightened ten-year-old had said that, once, Tetch had cornered her after class and taken special interest in her long, blonde hair. Or that several other students had insisted that they had seen him standing outside the fence, watching them during recess. Whether they had evidence or not, it was clear that it would be better for everyone if the man was kept off the streets. In the end, it was discovering that Tetch had failed to keep up appointments with his psychiatrist that had secured him an extended stay in Arkham and prompted Gotham's corrupted cops to search his townhouse.

That was when they had found the videotapes.

Thirteen tapes, all dated, all containing exactly one week's worth of footage, Monday through Sunday. Thirteen tapes to match twelve bodies that had been discovered over the past four years. Twelve, not thirteen. And the final tape was unfinished, ending abruptly on a Tuesday, the day before Tetch's arrest.

Which meant, the police dared to speculate, that little Alice Pleasance might still be alive.

_Where _was the question on everyone's minds. Not in Tetch's squalid little apartment, that much was certain. So far, no one had been able to determine where she could be, though the videos had all been filmed in the same location: a dark, cramped room of rough, stone brick—almost dungeon-like, were it not for the long, oak table and its elaborate place setting cluttered with teacups of various shapes and sizes. A mad tea party.

But Tetch was bound for Arkham. The police were at a loss. There was nothing that they could do except plead with _him_ to assemble a team of his top psychiatrists to try to make sense of what the Mad Hatter was saying and hopefully get some answers out of him.

Never one to miss an opportunity to delve into a new lunatic's mind, he had been happy to comply, temporarily reassigning many of his patients to better devote his time to this one man. He had a little over a week before the girl (assuming she was still alive) fell victim to starvation, but he wasn't terribly concerned. Even without using his fear toxin, he could have easily manipulated Tetch into revealing the child's location, but he had refrained. Having Harleen treat another pedophile—specifically one that targeted young girls who looked like her—was yet another opportunity that was too good to pass up. In doing this, his goal, he realized, was to pick at her brain and uncover her weaknesses, not to break her. With great reluctance, he had accepted that her abilities weren't completely lacking and that her appreciation for psychiatry was a relief. Allowing someone like Tetch to shatter Harleen's mind would hardly be beneficial in the long run. Besides, if anyone was going to break that girl, it was going to be him.

"So, what's he like?" she asked him now. "Is there anything I should know that I don't already?"

"Not really," he answered mildly, flipping open Tetch's file and glancing at the mugshot with distaste. "Highly delusional, obsessive-compulsive, sociopathic… He has practically no concept of the real world."

"Well, he was home schooled, wasn't he? By his mother? You've looked into an Oedipus complex?"

"I have, but it doesn't fit."

"Damn…" she muttered. "I hate Freud, but I've gotta admit, Mommy Issues usually does explain a lot… Well, anyway. Home schooling. I never thought that it was a bad idea as long as the kid has a good teacher."

He made a noncommittal noise at that last part, but agreed with the rest. "The problem with home schooling is that too often, for various reasons, the parent's _won't_ hire a decent instructor and instead take matters into their own hands. They're either unqualified or lazy, and thus the child is deprived of a proper education."

"And sometimes the parents don't let their kids interact with other children, which is a natural and necessary part of life, so these people reach adulthood and they have poor social skills _and_—" Harleen smiled "—no concept of the real world. So," she proposed, "what's the case with Tetch?"

"Definitely a disorganized killer. He's well versed in literature and has a passable grasp of mathematics, but I would hardly call him a genius, despite how meticulous he's been. He kills close to home, all of his victims lived within a twenty-mile radius, and even when he's lucid, his overall behavior is rather childish."

Harleen gave a soft hum of consideration. "Maybe that's it. Kids create fantasies, they can be incredibly devoted to certain things, and a lot of them are kinda selfish because the don't know about the real world yet, so to them, they're the center of it. Maybe part of the reason why he…targets children is because he never grew up."

He nodded faintly. "It's possible. But we're talking about _Alice in Wonderland_, Harleen, not _Peter Pan._"

She smiled softly. "You've read—"

"Not my favorite, but yes."

"Huh. Well, either way, it's a theory, but I doubt his motivations are as innocent as 'he's just a big kid.'"

"While I have no interest in child psychology, I somehow doubt that many children would believe they were the Mad Hatter and go around abducting and raping young, blonde girls."

She nodded distantly, appearing lost in thought.

"You think you can get him to tell you where she is?" She wouldn't say the child's name, as if she thought it was a taboo of some sort.

"Do you?" he returned.

He knew from the slight, helpless shrug of her shoulders that she answered him honestly. "I'm hoping for the best. If I can't get him to talk, I'd like to believe that you can."

"You're doubting my abilities?" he asked wryly.

She smiled, thinly but fondly. "Never. I've just…learned not to invest too much faith in…much of anything. That's all."

He nodded. "That's smart. Realistic."

"Yes."

"You don't like being disappointed."

"I don't know many who do."

Another nod. "In that case, I'll tell you that the chances of our making any progress with the Hatter are minimal. We're being asked to administer years' worth of treatment in one week—two at the most. And with a man that far gone, it's unlikely that we'll make any headway before the victim is dead—if she isn't already."

A harsh statement, but she didn't flinch. _Good girl_.

As much as he wanted her to show even one tiny weakness, her seemingly unflappable demeanor was almost as pleasing. In his experience, people like that were usually the most entertaining when their inevitable breakdowns finally occurred. And if any of his theories about Harleen Quinzel were accurate…

_I doubt I'll be disappointed._

"Have you watched the tapes yet?" he asked her suddenly.

"Uhm, yeah. Not all of them, though."

"You should get on that," he advised. "You're meeting with him tomorrow."

She nodded, looking like she wanted to say something but holding back.

"Not that I'm ungrateful, but may I ask…how did you manage to procure them?" he inquired. "I was under the impression that police evidence wouldn't be released so quickly."

Harleen's face brightened considerably.

"Oh. Well, I talked to Eddie about it and he said it was okay if I made copies."

"Eddie," he repeated flatly.

"Detective Nashton," she explained. "You know, the cute one with the bowler hat?"

"You mean that pretentious neurotic who's desperate for attention? Yes, I believe I know who you're referring to."

Harleen's expression was both playful and surprised. "Come on, he's nicer than that fatso Detective Bullock. You really don't like him? I thought you two would've gotten along. He's smart, he's got good taste—"

"Wearing a _bowler derby _does _not _mean that the man has taste."

"At least it's not one of those too-small fedoras that some guys are sporting," she pointed out.

"I suppose," he allowed, mouth thinning. "He isn't _un_intelligent, I'll give him that. But that cocky attitude of his is rather grating, not to mention the fact that it's obviously a cover-up for his insecurities, which, I imagine, are quite severe. They most likely stem from parental neglect, which, in turn, would explain the need for attention—"

"Damn, I didn't know you'd taken him on as a patient." Harleen smirked.

He narrowed his eyes. "You do the same thing."

"Ye-eah," she admitted, "but I don't go off on a rant about it—"

"I was hardly ranting," he interjected. "And I'm entitled to it when the man has been breathing down my neck since we took on this case, calling me at all hours of the day—"

"He calls you?"

"_Yes_," he fumed. "To tell me to write down everything Tetch might quote from _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland _and then 'report' back to him."

Harleen gave a sympathetic wince, though whether it was for him or for Nashton, he couldn't be sure.

"Sorry. If I'd known that, I would've given him _my_ number. I was actually going to, but thought it'd seem too much like flirting."

"You weren't already flirting with him?"

She swatted the air as if she could reach him. "_No._ Jerk," she added. "So what's the deal with the quotes?"

"Apparently he's convinced that it's all some kind of riddle—that only _he _can solve, of course—and it will tell him the whereabouts of Alice Pleasance."

"Maybe he's right?" she ventured. "Maybe in the Hatter's filthy, depraved mind, 'the rabbit hole' is…some other…orifice."

He looked at her expectantly and she glared, jaw clenched.

"Don't make me say it. And that was just a for instance; I'm not saying it's legit."

"Either way, while I'm not ruling out Nashton's theory, I'd prefer it if he stuck to his area of expertise. Maybe then I could stick to _mine_, because I'm not going to make any progress if he keeps interrupting me when I'm in the middle of—"

His phone rang.

Harleen pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from giggling.

He closed his eyes, breathed in once, and remained the picture of absolute calm.

"I'm not answering that."

"But what if it's, like, your land lady calling to tell you your apartment's on fire?"

"It's insured."

"You're a regular Boy Scout, y'know that? Always prepared." She smiled slightly. "That's why nobody has any doubts about you being in charge. They know you'll take care of this place. Mostly they're just worried you're gonna be a real hardass."

"Well, I can confidently say that I won't disappoint them—in _either _case," he assured her, lips pulling upward in a sinister grin.

Harleen the sadist looked rather delighted.

"That's good to know. Oh, and um…by the way… I wanted to ask—although, you'd _think _our colleagues be more mature than this…" She sighed. "They saw me and Gooding, and now they see me and you…so, you know what they're all gonna be thinking, right?"

"Of course. They aren't exactly being quiet about it." He frowned. "Why? Do you have a problem with that?"

"Do you?"

"Two people of the opposite sex are seen alone, getting along together. Everyone assumes that their relationship _must _be more than platonic. People will believe what they want to believe, regardless of what we tell them. So to answer your question, no, I don't have a problem with it."

"Then neither do I," she concluded. "I'm used to people saying shit about me, but I wasn't sure how you felt and I didn't want things to be weird between us."

He smiled tightly. "Believe me, it'll take more than rumors to scare me away."

"Another good thing to know. And, um, can I ask you something else?"

"May you? Yes," he corrected automatically.

Harleen rolled her eyes. "I was just wondering—partially because of the way everyone's gonna be talking…did you put me on Tetch's case just because we're friends?"

He arched a brow at her. "Consider your question, Harleen: If I assigned you to a patient for reasons other than your abilities as a psychiatrist, that would be acting nice. Do you really think that I could live with myself if I were _ever _nice to anyone?"

She bit her lip and grinned.

"That's what I thought."

* * *

She didn't like being depended on. To a degree, anyway. That wasn't to say that she didn't love her friends or that there was anything that she wouldn't have done for them, but the thought of one of them being unable to function without her made her itch. It was partially why things hadn't worked out with that clingy lawyer. He had always needed her, doted on her, told her how much she meant to him—sweet and all, but annoying as hell. Not that it had been his fault. She was sure that most women wanted a guy like that. But for Christ's sake, calling _every single night_ at exactly ten o'clock on-the-dot—even when it was Guy's Night? Wasn't that a bit much? Maybe he had just wanted her to know how much he cared about her, but it had just been so pathetic… And cliché, too. Like something out of those God-awful romantic comedies. She was too much of a realist to ever enjoy movies like those, let alone allow life to be treated like one. Not her life, not now, and definitely not in Gotham.

It wasn't like she was afraid to love—no way, not even close. For her, love was a lot like trouble: She didn't exactly go looking for it, but she didn't push it away, either. Although trouble seemed to be drawn to her a lot more than love was. The truth was that there just weren't many people that she honestly liked and trusted. It was all those 'toos'—too shallow, too phony, too dense, too narrow-minded, too transparent, too whiney, too materialistic, too boring, too naïve, too cocky, _too damn __**needy**_.

As for her aversion to dependency, she blamed her mom for that. The woman had been smart, confident, successful…then suddenly, it had all vanished, gone in the blink of an eye. It hadn't been her mom's fault, to be honest. Considering what had happened, that kind of reaction _was_ understandable….

_Yeah, but for ten years? And it might've never happened at all if she hadn't been so dependent on Dad in the first place._ She shook her head. _Fuck._

She was _not _going to think about this, not when she had that asshole Bolton to deal with, and that Goddamned pedophile, and then April—and _that_ was what had gotten her on this subject in the first place. From what she could tell, she was the only person that the girl had in Arkham, and now she was being taken away from her, leaving April with some rookie named Cassidy, group therapy with Leland, and a bunch of corrupt guards who raped her whenever they had the chance, and…she felt _bad_, damn it! She wanted to _do _something, but it felt so weird saying "Fuck you" to Jonathan. Like she actually felt rude for cursing at someone, even though she technically hadn't. And stupid, too, like she was making a mistake.

Was she? Jonny was one of those people who always seemed to be right in the end, no matter what else had happened. It was like he couldn't ever fail, not because he wouldn't allow it, but because it simply wasn't something he was capable of.

_Yeah, and Dad never failed at anything, either. Remember how that turned out?_

Still, what if Jonny was right (again)? There was a chance that she only felt this way out of sympathy for April. And, really, what evidence did she have to go on, save for her patient's testimony and her own suspicions? And Jonathan _had_ spent more time with the girl than she had…

_But you can't rule out the fact that he's a corrupted SOB and admits as much._

_But what would his motivation be?_ she had to wonder. _Other than the fact that he doesn't like her? And I doubt he's that petty._

So, either she was wrong or Jonny was wrong. Neither thought was exactly appealing.

Her plan probably _was _the best way to go. Probably. _Probably._

At least this way she could figure out who was right without doing _massive _damage to her patient's psyche. If it turned out that she'd been mistaken, then April started taking her meds again, simple as that. As for the guards, that was another problem entirely.

_See, _this_ is why I shouldn't get attached_, she thought wryly as she picked the lock on the door to Arkham's pharmacy. _I get too involved, then I start doing shit for them that could cost me my job._

_Oh, please_, she had to admit. _You know you love this._

It was true. The thought of unemployment didn't even scare her. And it wasn't that she was totally confident that she would get away with this, either. She knew that there was a chance—a very good chance—that she'd get caught, and if that happened, she also knew the likelihood of being able to talk her way out of being sacked. Or arrested. Though her disregard for the rules seemed to appeal to Jonathan, she doubted that he would appreciate her going against _his _orders. Their friendship wouldn't keep him from firing her ass. Especially if she was caught stealing from the pharmacy.

_He does like his drugs,_ she sing-songed airily, then cringed. _Jesus Christ, _don't _start cracking up now!_

A deep breath momentarily subdued her growing excitement as the lock clicked open and she quietly snuck into the pharmacy. Her eyes flitted from bottle to bottle, taking in each name as quickly as they could. She had managed to con Mark Tess into taking the night shift, turning off the cameras in the pharmaceutical wing, and playing lookout while she raided the place. Not that the guard would have agreed had he known just what she was looking for. As far as Tess was concerned, he probably figured she was searching for appetite suppressors or pep pills, something like that. It wouldn't have surprised her.

The latter might not have been so bad, actually. It would have sped things up, at any rate, and her time was limited. Tess had guaranteed her fifteen minutes at the most before another guard either noticed that the cameras were off or that Tess wasn't in the surveillance room like he was supposed to be. She had to move fast.

_Come on… Where is it… Wheeere is it…?_

She knew that they had it, with the number of rapists housed in Arkham, and especially now that Jonny was in charge. Psych-pharm. was his _thing_; it wouldn't have made sense if they didn't stock it. Besides, she remembered prescribing it to Allan Breedlove; they _had _to have it.

She moved on to another isle, her giddy buzz rapidly giving way to frustration.

_Damn it!_ She sighed, trying to recall any of the breathing techniques she had learned from Red's yoga classes. She called them Red's classes because, flexible though she was, yoga wasn't really her forte. On her own or with Pammy, she was fine, but when an instructor was telling her to let her guard down in a room full of people she didn't know? Easier said than done. She would have preferred a kickboxing class. Or a tae-bo class. Or a "Here's a bat; go smash some valuable china" class. _That _would've been relaxing. But the whole zen, breathing thing worked, she supposed.

_It's kept me from murdering that fucking pedophile, _she admitted. _So far. Shit… Okay. I'm to be looking for something, here._ Her eyes darted back and forth. _Need…to find…MPA. MPA, MPA—oh, there we go!_

Smiling triumphantly, she took the drug from its self.

_Castration in a can—well bottle, anyway._

She wished that she could have used Depo Provera—that only needed to be administered four times a year—but somehow she doubted that Bolton and the other guards would have sat still and let her inject them a drug that made their manhood wilt like tulips in the fall. However, they never needed to know that she had crushed up the right about of MPA and slipped it into their community coffee pot (they were al too cheap or too lazy to bring their own), and then, hopefully, _hopefully_ April would be safe. She couldn't keep stealing from Arkham, of course. Sooner or later, she'd have to find an outside supplier, but that wouldn't be too hard. MPA was a contraceptive, and she was, what? A young, ambitious career woman worried about getting knocked up? Celibacy was out of the question and she wanted to be extra precautious because condoms could break, but she was afraid of needles? Her doctor would understand, and give her the pills. For now, however, she didn't see the point in paying for the stuff when she had no idea if it would actually work.

_Here's hoping, _she thought grimly and slipped the bottle into her pocket.

Taking care to keep her movements quiet, she hastily made her exit, chest tight with adrenaline as she slipped outside and locked the door behind her.

_I'm such an danger whore_, she chastised herself, striding casually down the hall, still feeling a rush from the thrill of getting caught and relishing in it. Sneaking around like this really _could _have been avoided, but… _It's why I do what I do._

The bottle of pills shifted against her hip, its small weight mildly assuring as her heels clacked against the tiled floor. This would work, she thought. Hopefully, this would work.

_And now…home again, home again, jiggity-jig._

_

* * *

_

I hope that this chapter wasn't too disappointing, considering how long it's been since an update. Again, I apologize for that. Hopefully the next installment won't take as long.

Notes

DID – dissociative identity disorder, better known as multiple personality disorder, is often confused with schizophrenia or thought to be the same thing. Schizophrenia is an organic brain disease that often causes hallucinations and disorganized thought. DID is caused by repeated emotional, physical, or sexual abuse over an extended period of time, and those suffering from it tend to blackout rather than hallucinate. Like Harley says, while schizophrenia can be helped with various medicines, there is no medicinal cure for DID, though therapy and psychoanalysis have been known to help. Many members of the medical community believe that DID does not exist, while others argue that it does but that it's almost always an adverse result of therapy. And yet, we have Harley insisting that therapy is the best way to help April. Funny that.

"…you're acting like Dr. Leland." – I'm not sure why I have both of them rag on Joan, since I've never had a problem with her. Jonathan probably doesn't like her just because he sees anyone sweet as being either untrustworthy or stupid. Harley insists on confronting reality too much to ever get along with someone so optimistic, despite her own seemingly upbeat demeanor. Plus, I don't think she'd be personally offended by Leland's nice-but-condescending personality, but she _would_ feel that the patients didn't deserve it. It's too good for horrible people like Breedlove, and it's an insult to patients like April who are suffering from a disorder they can't control but are by no means completely out of it. That, and the small matter of Mother Issues might have something to do with it, even if they're nowhere near as bad as her Daddy issues. But I'll stop before I say too much.

Mary Dahl – aka "Baby Doll" from the BtAS episode of the same name. Though her voice got on my nerves, I've always found the character to be rather sad. Of course, in Nolan-verse, she'd probably be much more sinister, _à la Orphan _or something like that.

…he doubted that she had a Scarecrow – she just has a malicious clown girl with a Brooklyn/Yiddish accent. :-P Not that I think that Harley has a split personality. Meh, it'll be explained later on.

…a person couldn't come from abuse and be happy – don't listen to Dr. Crane, kids. He's just being a Negative Nancy. Overcoming adversity and leading a happy life despite adversity are two different things, and I think that both are possible if a person is determined enough and has support. But I also think that Jonathan is such a cynic that he's almost convinced that the latter isn't possible unless it's a façade. Therefore, he doubts that Harley had a difficult childhood since he knows that she's pretty open about who she is.

Jervis Tetch – while I think that the Mad Hatter is one of the more realistic Bat villains, I also have a hard time picturing him as a main villain in one of Nolan's movies. Mind control chips seem kinda gimmicky and having B-man tracking down a paedophile doesn't seem like a route they'd wanna take. Besides, Batsy always seems like he's too busy dealing with the mob and all the other large-scale problems to focus on kiddie pervs (Harley bitches him out about this later; don't worry). Back to the point, I think having Tetch make a cameo appearance could totally work, hence why I wanted to do one here. Originally, I'd wanted to have all of Jonny and Harley's patients be characters from the comics, but as this all takes place before Batman is created so therefore none of the Arkham regulars are, well, _regulars _I pretty much had to nix that idea. But the hints of pedophilia surrounding Tetch in_ Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth _totally made me want to include him instead of just having Harley be shaken up by some random child molester. Incidentally, I keep imagining Tetch looking like Timothy Spall (_Sweeney Todd, Enchanted_, and the _Harry Potter_ films).

Typical behavior of a pedophile – one trait that's common among pedophiles is that they target vulnerable children, as in kids who come from abusive and/or negligent families, don't fit in at school, are going through their parents' divorce, etc. Basically, kids in need of compassion or support because this makes them easier to manipulate. I should mention that they often take their time getting to know the child first; kids do get abducted, but that seems to be more common in TV and movies than reality. Much as I prefer to be as realistic as possible, the Mad Hatter obviously a special case.

He lured them into his van… – come on, you know I had to give Tetch a pedo van. The image isn't complete without one, especially since he doesn't have a pedostache.

"…he…targets children…because he never grew up." – unlike most offenders, there don't seem to be many shared characteristics amongst pedophiles that might have caused them to become sexually attracted to children. However, one idea is that arrested emotional development is the cause, basically saying that they're attracted to kids because they've never matured psychologically.

Detective Nashton – much as I like him, I don't think I could ever do the Riddler justice, hence why he probably won't be included in this story. But I still wanted to give him a cameo. :-) For the record, I definitely do _not _picture Jim Carrey's Riddler, neither in appearance nor behavior. To me, Nolanized Eddie (before he goes nuts) would be like a combination of Dexter, Sherlock Holmes (both original and à la Robert Downey Jr.) and House. Fun Fact: The last two kinda make sense, since _House, MD _is based on Sir Conan Doyle's mysteries. A few more unimportant things: I see him dressing like House, doing sneakers and jeans with a suit jacket over a T-shirt (and then a bowler hat :D); I've always liked reformed bad boy Eddie, which is the main reason why he works for the GCPD here; and the fact that Harley likes him is a nod to Dr. Doodle's adorable Quiddler fics, which you should definitely read.

"…too-small feoras…" – anyone else ever noticed this? Much as I like hats, I'm not a fan of the "fedora fad," mainly because their usually tacky looking, too small, and too formal for whatever else the person is wearing. In short: they just look dumb.

"…everyone assumes that their relationship _must _be more than platonic…" – even though this is totally hypocritical since I ship Harley/Jonny, it's meant to make fun of how in books, movies, and even real life, people are always trying to push a guy and a girl together, even if they're just friends. And it seems like a lot of this has to do with the fact that they have opposing sexes. It's very high school, in a way; that "I saw Joey with Tara—that must mean they're together!" mindset. The only thing that really annoys me about this is the fact that it's often hard to be in a relationship and still hang out with my guy friends.

…that clingy lawyer – just in case because it was brief, in Chapter V, Harley mentions having dated a criminal lawyer whom she couldn't stand because he always wanted her to make decisions for him.

…some rookie named Cassidy – reference to Dr. Sarah Cassidy from _Batman: Arkham Asylum_.

"Here's a bat; go smash some valuable china" class – there's this idea that you shouldn't keep your feelings bottled up because, one day, you'll just snap and go on a rampage. And, to an extent, this is sorta true. However, venting your frustrations in a physical manner both is and isn't healthy. The good: It helps you vent, obviously. The bad: Venting makes you feel good and when something makes us feel good, we tend to do it again. Until it becomes a habit. As in, it gets to the point where we actually _want _to be angry and flip shit over something insignificant. And if there's no punching bag/wall/valuable china around, it's possible that we'll start to take our aggression out on another person, which definitely _isn't _good (unless the bastard deserves it, haha). I'm looking forward to having someone (probably Jonathan) call Batman on this once we get into post-TDK territory. I'd like to have Harley do it, but that'd be somewhat hypocritical of her (and, oh, would you look at that foreshadowing).

_Castration in a can_ – aka, chemical castration. Instead of actually castrating or sterilizing sex offenders, they're given anti-androgen drugs that reduce their libidos and, therefore, their sexual activities. While this doesn't stop them from having violent fantasies/urges, the idea is that reducing the sex drive will reduce the power and frequency of the offenders' fantasies, which will make them less likely to offend again.

MPA – medroxyprogesterone acetate is used as both a contraceptive and a form of chemical castration. Originally, I was gonna go with Depo Provera (explained below) until I realized that it needed to be injected, thus killing the idea of Harley putting it in the guards' coffee. But MPA can be taken orally or via injection and, after nearly going crazy trying to find out if crushing pills and then drinking them only works on TV, I found out that it's okay as long as it's not a time-release drug. Thankfully, MPA isn't, so yay for that.

Depo Provera – this is the most common form of chemical castration because it's long acting and a person only needs to receive an injection every three months.

_Home again, home again, jiggity-jig_ – from the BtAS episode "Harley's Holiday", plus it's also a line from a well known nursery rhyme.

**Disclaimer:** Harley and Jonny belong to DC, as do Eddie, Jervis, Pammy, and Bolton. April and the rest are mine.


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